THE  LIBRARY- 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


,  ] 


HERMIONE 


BOOKS    BY    DON    MARQUIS 

PREFACES 

HERMIONE 

GARTER 

NOAH  AN'  JONAH  AN' 
CAP'N  JOHN  SMITH 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


T247 


HERMIONE 

AND 

HER  LITTLE  GROUP 
OF   SERIOUS  THINKERS 


BY 


DON   MARQUIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  JASPER  B.("  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1923 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

PROEM — INTRODUCING  SOME  OF  HERMIONE'S  FRIENDS  I 

SINCERITY  IN  THE  HOME 5 

VIBRATIONS 8 

AREN'T  THE  RUSSIANS  WONDERFUL?  .        .        .        .11 

How  SUFFERING  PURIFIES  ONE  !        ....  13 

UNDERSTANDING  AND  ONE'S  OWN  HOME  16 

THOUGHTS  OF  HEREDITY  AND  THINGS        .        ..       .  19 

THE   SWAMI    BRANDRANATH      .....  22 

FOTHERGIL  FlNCH,  THE  POET  OF  REVOLT  ...  24 

How  THE  SWAMI  HAPPENED  TO  HAVE  SEVEN  WIVES  29 

THE  ROMANTIC  OLD  DAYS 32 

HERMIONE'S  BOSWELL  EXPLAINS        ....  34 

SYMBOLS  AND  DEW-HOPPING 36 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SNORE 39 

BALLADE  OF  UNDERSTANDING 45 

HERMIONE  ON  FASHIONS  AND  WAR  ....  47 

URGES  AND  DOGS 50 

MOODS  AND  POPPIES 53 

CONCENTRATION 57 

SOUL  MATES 59 

HERMIONE  TAKES  UP  LITERATURE      ....  02 

V 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

THE  WORLD  Is  GETTING  BETTER  ....  66 

WAR  AND  ART 68 

A  SPIRITUAL  DIALOGUE 71 

WILL  THE  BEST  PEOPLE  RECEIVE  THE  SUPERMAN 

SOCIALLY? 73 

THE  PARASITE  WOMAN  MUST  Go !  .  .  .  .76 

THE  HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL 79 

MAMMA  Is  So  MID-VICTORIAN 81 

YOKE  EASELEY  AND  His  NEW  ART  ....  84 

HERMIONE  ON  SUPERFICIALITY 89 

ISIS,  THE  ASTROLOGIST 92 

THE  SIMPLE  HOME  FESTIVALS 96 

ClTRONELLA  AND  STEGOMYIA  .....  IOO 

HERMIONE'S  SALON  OPENS  (VERSE)  ....  104 

THE  PERFUME  CONCERT 109 

ON  BEING  OTHER-WORLDLY 112 

PARENTS,  AND  THEIR  INFLUENCE  .  .  .  .114 
FOTHERGIL  FINCH  TELLS  OF  His  REVOLT  AGAINST 

ORGANIZED  SOCIETY 117 

THE  EXOTIC  AND  THE  UNEMPLOYED  ....  120 

SOULS  AND  TOES 123 

KULTUR  AND  THINGS 128 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS 131 

POOR  DEAR  MAMMA  AND  FOTHERGIL  FINCH  .  .  134 


Contents  vii 


PAGE 


PRISON  REFORM  AND  POISE 139 

AN  EXAMPLE  OF  PSYCHIC  POWER      .        .        .        .141 

SOME  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS 145 

THE  BOURGEOIS  ELEMENT  AND  BACKGROUND  .  .  148 
TAKING  Up  THE  LIQUOR  PROBLEM  .  .  .  .150 
THE  JAPANESE  ARE  WONDERFUL,  IF  You  GET  WHAT 

i  MEAN •    .        .  154 

SHE  REFUSES  TO  GIVE  Up  THE  COSMOS     .        .        .  157 

THE  CAVE  MAN. 159 

THE  LITTLE  GROUP  GIVES  A  PAGAN  MASQUE  .        .  163 

SYMPATHY 167 

BLOUSES,  BULGARS,  AND  BUTTERMILK        .        .        .  171 

TWILIGHT  SLEEP 173 

INTUITION 175 

STIMULATING  INFLUENCES 178 

POLITICS 181 

HERMIONE  ON  PSYCHICAL  RESEARCH  ....  183 

ENVOY — HERMIONE  THE  DEATHLESS  ....  187 


HERMIONE. 


HERMIONE 

PROEM 
(Introducing  some  of  Hermione's  Friends) 

I  visited  one  night,  of  late, 

Thought's  Underworld,  the  Brainstorm  Slum, 

The  land  of  Futile  Piffledom; 

A  salon  weird  where  congregate 

Freak,  Nut  and  Bug  and  Psychic  Bum. 

There,  there,  they  sit  and  cerebrate: 
The  fervid  Pote  who  never  potes, 
Great  Artists,  Male  or  She,  that  Talk 
But  scorn  the  Pigment  and  the  Chalk, 
And  Cubist  sculptors  wild  as  Goats. 
Theosophists  and  Swamis,  too, 
Musicians  mad  as  Hatters  be — 
(E'en  puzzled  Hatters,  two  or  three!) 
Tame  Anarchists,  a  dreary  crew, 
Squib  Socialists  too  damp  to  sosh, 
Fake  Hobohemians  steeped  in  suds, 
Glib  Females  in  Artistic  Duds 
With  Captive  Husbands  cowed  and  gauche. 


Hermione 

I  saw  some  Soul  Mates  side  by  side 

Who  said  their  cute  young  Souls  were  pink; 

1  saw  a  Genius  on  the  Brink 

(Or  so  he  said)  of  suicide. 

I  saw  a  Playwright  who  had  tried 

But  couldn't  make  the  Public  think ; 

I  saw  a  Novelist  who  cried, 

Reading  his  own  Stuff,  in  his  drinkj 

I  met  a  vapid  egg-eyed  Gink 

Who  said  eight  times :    "Art  is  my  Bride!'* 

A  Queen  in  sandals  slammed  the  Pans 
And  screamed  a  Chinese  chant  at  us, 
The  while  a  Hippopotamus 
Shook  tables,  book-shelves  and  divans 
With  vast  Terpsichorean  fuss  .  .  . 
Some  Oriental  kind  of  muss.  .  .  . 

A  rat-faced  Idiot  Boy  who  slimes 

White  paper  o'er  with  metric  crimes — » 

He  is  a  kind  of  Burbling  Blear 

Who  warbles  Sex  Slush  sad  to  hear 

And  mocks  God  in  his  stolen  rhymes 

And  wears  a  ruby  in  one  ear — 

Murmured  to  me :    "My  Golden  Soul 

Drinks  Song  from  out  a  Crystal  Bowl.  .  .  . 

Drinks  Love  and  Song  .  .  .  my  Golden  Soul!" 

I  let  him  live.    There  were  no  bricks, 

[2] 


Proem 


Or  even  now  that  Golden  Soul 
Were  treading  water  in  the  Styx. 

A  Pallid  Skirt — anaemic  Wisp, 

As  bloodless  as  a  stick  of  chalk — - 

Got  busy  with  this  line  of  talk : 

"The  Sinner  is  Misunderstood! 

How  can  the  Spirit  enter  in, 

Be  blended  with,  the  Truly  Good 

Unless  through  Sympathy  with  Sin?" 

"Phryne,"  I  murmured,  sad  and  low, 
"I  pass  the  Buck — I  do  not  know !" 

Upon  a  mantel  sat  a  Bust.  .  .  . 
Some  Hindu  god,  pug- faced  and  squat; 
A  visage  to  inspire  disgust.  .  .  . 
Lord  Bilk,  the  Deity  of  Rot  .  .  . 
Nay,  surely,  'twas  the  great  god  Bunk, 
For  when  I  wunk  at  it,  it  wunk! 

I  heard  ...  I  heard  it  proved  that  night 
That  Fire  is  Cold,  and  Black  is  White, 
That  Junk  is  Art,  and  Art  is  Junk, 
That  Virtue's  wrong,  and  Vice  is  right, 
That  Death  is  Life,  and  Life  is  Death, 
[That  Breath  is  Rocks,  and  Rocks  are  Breath: 

[3] 


Hermione 

The  Cheap  and  easy  paradox 

The  Fool  springs,  hoping  that  it  shocks.  .  . 

Brain-sick,  I  stumbled  to  the  street 

And  drooled  unto  a  kindly  Cop : 

"Since  moons  have  feathers  on  their  feet, 

Why  is  your  headgear  perched  on  top? 

And  if  you  scorn  the  Commonplace, 

Why  wear  a  Nose  upon  your  Face? 

And  since  Pythagoras  is  mute 

On  Sex  Hygiene  and  Cosmic  Law, 

Is  your  Blonde  Beast  as  Bland  a  Brute, 

As  Blind  a  Brute,  as  Bernard  Shaw? 

No  doubt,  when  drilling  through  the  parks, 

With  Ibsen's  Ghost  and  Old  Doc  Marx, 

You've  often  seen  two  Golden  Souls 

Drink  Suds  and  Sobs  from  Crystal  Bowls  ?" 

"I  ain't,"  he  says,  "I  ain't,  Old  Kid, 
And  I  would  pinch  'em  if  I  did!" 

"Thank  God,"  I  said,  "for  this,  at  least  i 
The  world,  in  spots,  is  well  policed!" 


SINCERITY  IN  THE  HOME 

SINCERITY  should  be  the  keynote  of  a  life, 
don't  you  think? 

Sincerity  —  beauty  —  use  —  these  are  my 
watchwords. 

I  heard  such  an  interesting  talk  on  sincerity  the 
other  evening.  I  belong  to  a  Little  Group  of  Seri 
ous  Thinkers  who  are  taking  up  sincerity  in  all  its 
phases  this  week. 

We  discussed  Sincerity  in  the  Home. 

So  many  people's  homes,  you  know,  do  not  repre 
sent  anything  personal. 

The  sincere  home  should  be  full  of  purpose  and 
personality — decorations,  rugs,  ornaments,  hangings 
and  all,  you  know. 

The  home  shows  the  soul. 

So  I'm  doing  over  our  house  from  top  to  bottom, 
putting  personality  into  it. 

I've  a  room  I  call  the  Ancestors'  Room. 

You  know,  when  one  has  ancestors,  one's  ances 
tral  traditions  keep  one  up  to  the  mark,  somehow. 
You  know  what  I  mean — blood  will  tell,  and  all  that. 
Ancestors  help  one  to  be  sincere. 

So  I've  furnished  my  Ancestors'  Room  with  all 
[5] 


Hermione 

sorts  of  things  to  remind  me  of  the  dear  dead-and- 
gone  people  I  get  my  traditions  from. 

Heirlooms  and  portraits  and  things,  you  know. 

Of  course,  all  our  own  family  heirlooms  were 
destroyed  in  a  fire  years  ago. 

So  I  had  to  go  to  the  antique  shops  for  the  por 
traits  and  furniture  and  chairs  and  snuff  boxes  and 
swords  and  fire  irons  and  things. 

I  bought  the  loveliest  old  spinet — truly,  a  find ! 

I  can  sit  down  to  it  and  imagine  I  am  my  own 
grandmother's  grandmother,  you  know. 

And  it's  wonderful  to  sit  among  those  old  heir 
looms  and  feel  the  sense  of  my  ancestors'  personali 
ties  throbbing  and  pulsing  all  about  me! 

I  feel,  when  I  sit  at  the  spinet,  that  my  personality 
is  truly  represented  by  my  surroundings  at  last. 

I  feel  that  I  have  at  last  achieved  sincerity  in  the 
midst  of  my  traditions. 

And  there's  a  picture  of  the  loveliest  old  lady  .  .  . 
old-fashioned  costume,  you  know,  and  all  that  .  .  . 
and  the  hair  dressed  in  a  very  peculiar  way.  .  .  . 

Mamma  says  it's  a  made-up  picture — not  really 
an  antique  at  all — but  I  can  just  feel  the  personality 
vibrating  from  it. 

I  got  it  at  a  bargain,  too. 

I  call  her — the  picture,  you  know — after  an  an 
cestress  of  mine  who  came  to  this  country  in  the 
old  Colonial  days. 

[6] 


Sincerity  tn  the  Home 


With  William  the  Conqueror,  you  know — or 
maybe  it  was  William  Penn.  But  it  couldn't  have 
been  William  Penn,  could  it  ?  For  she  went  to  New 
Jersey — Orange,  N.  J.  Was  it  William  of  Orange? 
More  than  likely  .  .  . 

Anyhow,  I  call  the  picture  after  her — Lady  Cla 
rissa,  I  call  it.  She  married  a  commoner,  as  so 
many  of  the  early  settlers  of  this  country  did. 

When  I  sit  at  the  spinet  and  look  at  Lady  Clarissa 
I  often  wonder  what  people  do  without  family  tra 
ditions. 

And  it's  such  a  comfort  to  know  I'm  in  a  room 
that  really  represents  my  personality! 


VIBRATIONS 

HAVE  you  thought  much  about  Vibrations? 
We're  taking  them  up  this  week — a  Lit 
tle  Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers  I  belong 
to,  you  know — and  they're  wonderfully  worth 
while — wonderfully  so! 

That's  what  I  always  ask  myself — is  a  thing 
worth  while?  Or  isn't  it? 

Vibrations  are  the  key  to  everything.  Atoms 
used  to  be,  but  atoms  have  quite  gone  out. 

The  thing  that  makes  the  new  dances  so  wonder 
fully  beneficial,  you  know,  is  that  they  give  you 
Vibrations. 

To  an  untrained  mind,  of  course,  Vibrations 
would  be  dangerous. 

But  I  always  feel  that  the  right  sort  of  mind  will 
get  good  out  of  anything,  and  the  wrong  sort  will 
get  harm. 

The  most  interesting  woman  talked  to  us  the 
other  night — to  our  little  group,  you  know — on  one- 
piece  bathing  suits  and  the  Greek  spirit. 

Don't  you  just  dote  on  the  Greeks? 

They  had  some  of  the  most  modern  ideas — it 
[8] 


Vibrations 

seems  we  get  a  lot  of  our  advanced  thought  from 
them,  if  you  get  what  I  mean. 

They  were  so  unrestricted,  too.  One  has  only 
to  look  at  their  friezes  and  vases  and  things  to 
realize  that. 

And  the  one-piece  bathing  suit,  so  the  woman 
said,  was  an  unconscious  modern  effort  to  get  back 
to  the  Greek  spirit. 

She  had  a  husband  with  her.  He  doesn't  lecture 
or  anything,  you  know. 

But  she  isn't  so  very  Greek-looking  herself,  al 
though  her  spirit  is  so  Greek,  so  she  has  this  Greek- 
looking  husband  to  wear  the  sandals  and  the  tunics 
and  the  togas  and  things. 

She  calls  him  Achilles. 

It's  quite  proper,  you  know — Achilles  stays  be 
hind  a  screen  until  she  wants  him  to  illustrate  a 
point,  and  then  he  comes  out  with  a  lyre  or  a  lute 
or  something,  and  just  stands  and  looks  Greek.  And 
then  he  goes  back  behind  the  screen  and  changes 
into  the  next  garment  she  needs. 

Of  course,  there  are  lots  of  men  couldn't  stand 
it  as  well  as  Achilles.  But  when  you  come  to  that, 
there  are  lots  of  men  who  don't  look  so  very  well 
in  bathing  suits,  either. 

And,  of  course,  our  American  men  don't  have 
the  temperament  to  carry  off  a  thing  like  that. 

Of  course,  if  we  all  turned  Greek  it  would  be 

[9] 


Hermione 

quite  a  shock  right  at  first  to  see  everybody  come 
into  a  dining-room  or  a  drawing-room  looking  like 
Achilles  does. 

Not  that  temperament  makes  so  much  difference 
as  it  did  a  few  years  ago,  you  know — temperament 
and  personality  are  going  out  and  individuality  is 
coming  in. 

Have  you  thought  much  about  automatic  writ 
ing? 

It's  being  taken  up  again,  you  know. 

Not  the  vulgar,  old-fashioned  kind  of  spiritual 
ism — that  was  so  ordinary,  wasn't  it? 

The  new  ghosts  are  different.  More — more — 
well,  more  refined,  somehow,  you  know.  Like  the 
new  dances  as  compared  with  that  horrid  turkey- 
trot. 

One  should  always  ask  one's  self:  "Does  this 
have  a  refining  influence  on  me ;  and  through  me  on 
the  world  ?" 

For,  after  all,  there  is  a  duty  one  owes  to  society 
in  general. 

Have  you  seen  the  new  sunshades? 


AREN'T  THE  RUSSIANS  WONDERFUL? 

AREN'T  the  Russians  marvelous  people ! 
We've  been  taking  up  Diaghileff  in  a  se 
rious  way — our  little  group,  you  know — and, 
really,  he's  wonderful! 

Who  else  but  Diaghileff  could  give  those  lovely 
Russian  things  the  proper  accent? 

And  accent — if  you  know  what  I  mean — accent 
is  everything! 

Accent!  Accent!  What  would  art  be  without 
accent  ? 

Accent  is  coming  in — if  you  get  what  I  mean — • 
and  what  they  call  "punch"  is  going  out.  I  always 
thought  it  was  a  frightfully  vulgar  sort  of  thing, 
anyhow — punch ! 

The  thing  I  love  about  the  Russians  is  their  Ori 
entalism. 

You  know,  there's  an  old  saying  that  if  you  find 
a  Russian  you  catch  a  Tartar  ...  or  something 
like  that. 

I'm  sure  that  is  wrong.  ...  I  get  so  mixed  on 
quotations.  But  I  always  know  where  I  can  find 
them,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 

En] 


Hermione 

But  the  Russian  verve  isn't  Oriental,  is  it? 

Don't  you  just  dote  on  verve? 

That's  what  makes  Bakst  so  fascinating,  don't 
you  think  ? — his  verve! 

Though  they  do  say  that  the  Russian  operas 
don't  analyze  as  well  as  the  German  or  the  Italian 
ones — if  you  get  what  I  mean. 

Though  for  that  matter,  who  analyzes  them? 

One  may  not  know  how  to  analyze  an  opera,  and 
yet  one  may  know  what  one  likes ! 

I  suppose  there  will  be  a  frightful  lot  of  imita 
tions  of  Russian  music  and  ballet  now.  Don't  you 
just  hate  imitators? 

One  finds  it  everywhere — imitation !  It's  the  sin- 
cerest  flattery,  they  say.  But  that  doesn't  excuse 
it,  do  you  think? 

There's  a  girl — one  of  my  friends,  she  says  she 
is — who  is  always  trying  to  imitate  me.  My  ex 
pressions,  you  know,  and  the  way  I  talk  and  walk, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

She  gets  some  of  my  superficial  mannerisms  .  .  . 
but  she  can't  quite  do  my  things  as  if  they  were  her 
own,  you  know  .  .  .  there  is  where  the  accent 
comes  in  again! 


HOW  SUFFERING  PURIFIES  ONE! 

OH,  to  go  through  fire  and  come  out  purified! 
Suffering  is  wonderful,  isn't  it?  Simply 
wonderful! 

The  loveliest  man  talked  to  us  the  other  night — • 
to  our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know 
— about  social  ideals  and  suffering. 

The  reason  so  many  attempts  to  improve  things 
fail,  you  know,  is  because  the  people  who  try  them 
out  haven't  suffered  personally. 

He  had  the  loveliest  eyes,  this  man. 

He  made  me  think.  I  said  to  myself,  "After  all, 
have  I  suffered  ?  Have  I  been  purified  by  fire  ?" 

And  I  decided  that  I  had — that  is  spiritually, 
you  know. 

The  suffering — the  spiritual  suffering — that  I 
undergo  through  being  misunderstood  is  something 
frightful! 

Mamma  discourages  every  Cause  I  take  up.  So 
does  Papa. 

I  get  no  sympathy  in  my  devotion  to  my  ideals. 
Only  opposition! 

And  from  a  child  I  have  had  such  a  high-strung, 
[13] 


Hermione 

sensitive  nervous  organization  that  opposition  of 
any  sort  has  made  me  ill. 

There  are  some  temperaments  like  that. 

Once  when  I  was  quite  small  and  Mamma  threat 
ened  to  spank  me,  I  had  convulsions. 

And  nothing  but  opposition,  opposition,  oppo 
sition  now ! 

Only  we  advanced  thinkers  know  what  it  is  to 
suffer!  To  go  through  fire  for  our  ideals! 

And  what  is  physical  suffering  by  the  side  of 
spiritual  suffering? 

I  so  often  think  of  that  when  I  am  engaged  in 
sociological  work.  Only  the  other  night — it  was 
raining  and  chilly,  you  know — some  of  us  went 
down  in  the  auto  to  one  of  the  missions  and  looked 
at  the  sufferers  who  were  being  cared  for. 

And  the  thought  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden: 
"Yes,  physical  suffering  may  be  relieved — but  what 
is  there  to  relieve  spiritual  suffering  like  mine  ?" 

Though,  of  course,  it  improves  one. 

I  think  it  is  beginning  to  show  in  my  eyes. 

I  looked  at  them  for  nearly  two  hours  in  the 
mirror  last  evening,  trying  to  be  quite  certain. 

And,  you  know,  there's  a  kind  of  look  in  them 
that's  never  been  there  until  recently.  A  kind  of 
a — a 

Well,  it's  an  intangible  look,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean. 

[14] 


How  Suffering  Purifies  One! 

Not  exactly  a  hungry  look,  more  of  a  yearning 
look! 

Thank  heaven,  though,  I  can  control  it — one 
should  always  be  the  captain  of  one's  soul,  shouldn't 
one? 

I  hide  it  at  times.  Because  one  must  hide  one's 
suffering  from  the  world,  mustn't  one? 

But  at  other  times  I  let  it  show. 

And,  really,  with  practice,  I  think  I  am  going 
to  manage  it  so  that  I  can  turn  it  off  and  on — if 
you  get  what  I  mean — almost  at  will. 

Because,  you  know,  in  certain  costumes  that  look 
would  be  quite  unbecoming. 

Quite  out  of  Harmony.  And  Inner  Beauty  only 
comes  through  Inner  Harmony,  doesn't  it? 

Harmony !  Harmony !  Oh,  to  be  in  accord  with 
the  Infinite! 

.  Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  ask  my 
self,  "Have  I  vibrated  in  tune  with  the  Infinite  to 
day,  or  have  I  failed?" 


UNDERSTANDING,   AND   ONE'S  OWN 
HOME 

IT'S  terrible  when  one  can't  get  understanding 
in  one's  own  family! 

Papa  has  very  little  real  sympathy  for  ad 
vanced  ideas.    And  as  for  Mamma! 

Sometimes  I  think  I  shall  write! 

Express  myself,  my  real  Ego,  in  Song. 

Not  rhymes,  of  course.  If  I  worked  a  year  I 
couldn't  make  two  lines  rhyme. 

But  rhyme  is  going  out,  anyhow. 

Vers  libre  is  all  the  rage  now. 

We  took  it  up  not  long  ago — our  Little  Group 
of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know — and  I  feel  con 
fident  it  is  My  Medium  of  Expression. 

It  is  so  untrammeled,  isn't  it? 

And  one  should  be  untrammeled,  both  in  Art  and 
Life,  shouldn't  one? 

Often  I  ask  myself,  at  the  close  of  day:  "Have  I 
been  untrammeled  today?  Or  have  I  failed?" 

If  I  could  put  my  real  Ego — and  how  wonderful 
the  Ego  is,  isn't  it? — into  vers  libre,  even  Papa 
might  understand  me. 

[16] 


Understanding,  and  One's  Own  Home 

I  have  always  yearned  to  be  understood! 

I  have  drawn  back  from  matrimony  again  and 
again  because  I  thought:  "Will  he  understand  me? 
Will  he  see  my  real  Ego?  Or  will  he  not?" 

Only  the  other  evening  I  was  talking  to  the  love 
liest  man,  who  has  been  misunderstood  by  his  wife. 
It  is  frightful! 

He  is  a  sculptor.  A  cubist  sculptor.  But  he 
looks  quite  respectable — really,  some  very  good 
people  receive  him. 

And  he  has  the  most  wonderful  eyes — sympa 
thetic,  you  know,  and  psychic — but  oh!  so  pure, 
too! 

He  dotes  on  purity.     He  told  me  that. 

His  wife  does  not  understand  him.  She  does 
not  see  his  real  Ego. 

He  said  to  me:  "I  can  read  you  like  an  open 
book.  You  are  yearning.  You  are  yearning  for 
real  understanding.  No  one  has  ever  understood 
you.  Is  that  not  so?  Is  that  not  your  secret?" 

Alas!    It  was.     I  could  not  deny  it. 

I  said  to  him:  "But  is  real  understanding  ever 
attainable?" 

He  sighed  and  said :  "Alas!    The  Unattainable!" 

I  knew  why  he  sighed — there  is  so  much  of  it— 
the  Unattainable! 

"What  one  attains,"  I  said,  "is  often  so  intangi 
ble— K!O  you  not  find  it  so?" 

[17] 


Hermione 

"Alas!"  he  said,  "the  Intangible!" 

And  I  felt,  somehow — in  a  queer  psychic  way 
that  is  elusive,  you  know — strengthened  and  sweet 
ened  spiritually  by  our  sad  little  talk. 

Our  real  Egos  had  been  in  communion.  That's 
what  he  said. 

He  has  nine  very  commonplace  children,  and  his 
wife  is  very  difficult  socially. 

She  insists  on  filling  some  sort  of  a  commercial 
position,  although  he  says  her  place  is  in  the  home. 

So  they  have  grown  apart.  People  don't  invite 
her  places.  Only  him. 

Oh!  to  be  understood! 


THOUGHTS  ON  HEREDITY  AND  THINGS 

ISN'T  Heredity  wonderful,  though! 
We've  been  going  into  it  rather  deeply — 
My  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know. 

And,  really,  when  you  get  into  it,  it's  quite  com 
plicated.  All  about  Homozygotes  and  Heterozy- 
gotes,  you  know. 

The  Homozygotes  are — well,  you  might  call 
them  the  aristocrats,  you  know;  thoroughbreds. 

And  the  Heterozygotes  are  the  hybrids. 

Only,  of  course,  they  don't  need  to  be  goats  at 
all. 

Not  but  what  they  could  be  goats,  you  know,  just 
as  easily  as  horses  or  cows  or  human  beings. 

But  whether  goats  or  humans,  don't  you  think 
the  great  lesson  of  Heredity  is  that  Blood  will 
Tell? 

Really  the  farther  I  go  into  Philosophy  and  Sci 
ence  and  such  things  the  more  clearly  I  see  what  a 
fund  of  truth  there  is  in  the  old  simple  proverbs! 

People  used  to  find  out  great  truths  by  Instinct, 
you  know;  and  now  they  use  Research — vaccinate 
guinea  pigs,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 


Hermione 

Instinct!    Isn't  Instinct  wonderful! 

And  Intuition,  too! 

You  know,  I  have  the  most  remarkable  intuition 
at  times!  Have  I  ever  told  you  that  I'm  fright 
fully  psychic? 

Mr.  Finch,  the  poet — you  know  Fothergil  Finch, 
don't  you? — he  writes  vers  libre  and  poetry  both 
• — Mr.  Finch  said  to  me  the  other  evening,  "You 
are  extremely  psychic!" 

"How  did  you  know  it?"  I  asked  him. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "how  does  one  know  these 
things?" 

And  how  true  that  is,  when  you  come  to  think 
it  over !  How  does  one  know  ? 

He  has  the  most  magnetic  eyes!  I  could  feel 
them  drawing  my  thoughts  from  me  as  we  talked. 

"You  have  a  Secret,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  said.    And  to  myself  I  added,  "Alas!" 

"Your  Secret  is,"  he  said,  "that  there  is  a  dif 
ference  between  you  and  other  girls." 

It  was  positively  uncanny!  I've  felt  that  for 
years!  But  no  one  else  had  ever  suspected  it  be 
fore. 

"Mr.  Finch,"  I  said,  "I  must  have  told  you  that — 
or  else  it  was  just  a  wild  guess.  You  couldn't  have 
gotten  it  psychically.  How  did  you  know  it?" 

"One  knows  these  things,"  he  said — a  trifle  sad 
ly,  I  thought.  "They  come  to  one — out  of  the 

[20] 


Thoughts  on  Heredity  and  Things 

Silences;  one  knows  not  how.  It  is  better  not  to 
ask  how !  It  is  better  not  to  question !  It  is  better 
to  accept!  Do  you  not  feel  it  so?" 

Sometimes  I  think  that  Fothergil  Finch  is  the 
only  man  who  has  ever  understood  me. 

You  see,  I  am  Dual  in  my  personality. 

There  is  the  real  Ego,  and  there  is  the  Alter  Ego. 

And,  besides  these,  I  have  so  many  moods  which 
do  not  come  from  either  one  of  my  Egosl  They 
come  from  my  Subliminal  Consciousness! 

Isn't  the  Subliminal  Consciousness  wonderful; 
simply  wonderful? 

We're  going  to  take  it  up  in  a  serious  way  some 
evening  next  week,  and  thresh  it  out  thoroughly. 

But  I  must  run  along.  I  have  an  engagement 
with  my  dressmaker  at  two  o'clock.  You  know, 
I've  really  found  one  who  can  make  my  gowns 
interpret  my  inner  spirit. 


THE   SWAMI   BRANDRANATH 

1    HEARD  such  a  lovely  lecture  the  other  night 
on  the  Cosmos. 

A  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Women  that  I 
belong  to  are  specializing  this  winter  on  the  Cosmos. 

We  took  it  up,  you  know,  because  the  other  top 
ics  we  were  studying  included  it  so  frequently.  And 
it's  wonderful,  really  wonderful! 

Of  course,  an  untrained  mind  will  grapple  with 
it  in  vain.  One's  interest  must  be  serious  and  sin 
cere.  One  must  devote  time  to  it. 

Otherwise  one  will  get  more  harm  than  good 
out  of  it,  you  know. 

It's  like  the  Russian  dances  that  way. 

They  are  so  primal,  those  dances !  And  all  those 
primal  things  are  dangerous,  don't  you  think  ?  Un 
less  one  has  poise! 

It's  odd,  too,  that  some  of  the  most  primal  peo 
ple  have  the  most  poise,  isn't  it? 

The  Swami  Brandranath  was  like  that.  I've  told 
you  about  the  Swami  Brandranath,  haven't  I? 

He  wore  such  lovely  robes!  You  can't  buy  silk 
like  that  in  this  country. 

[22] 


The  Swami  Brandranath 


And  he  had  such  a  pure  look  in  his  eyes.  So 
many  of  these  magnetic  people  lack  that  pure  look, 
you  know. 

He  used  to  give  talks  to  a  Little  Group  of  Serious 
Thinkers  I  belong  to. 

He  taught  us  to  go  into  the  Silences — only  we 
never  quite  learned,  for  some  of  the  girls  would 
giggle.  There  are  always  people  like  that.  The 
dear  Swami! — he  was  so  patient!  It  was  Occi 
dental  levity,  he  said,  and  we  couldn't  help  it. 

That  is  one  of  the  main  differences  between  the 
Orient  and  the  Occident,  you  know. 

How  wonderful  they  are,  the  Orientals.  And 
just  think  of  India,  with  all  its  yogis  and  bazaars 
and  mahatmas  and  howdahs  and  rajahs  and  things ! 

He  was  a  Brahmin,  the  Swami  was.  A  Brahmin 
and  a  Burman  are  the  same  thing,  you  know. 

It's  a  caste,  like  belonging  to  one  of  our  best 
families. 

The  Swami  explained  about  the  marks  of  caste, 
and  so  forth,  to  us. 

And  then  one  of  the  girls  asked  him  if  he  was 
tattooed ! 

The  idea! 


FOTHERGIL  FINCH,  THE  POET  OF 
REVOLT 

ISN'T  it  odd  how  some  of  the  most  radical  and 
advanced  and  virile  of  the  leaders  in  the  New 
Art  and  the  New  Thought  don't  look  it  at  all  ? 

There's  Fothergil  Finch,  for  instance.  Nobody 
could  be  more  virile  than  Fothy  is  in  his  Soul. 
Fothy's  Inner  Ego,  if  you  get  what  I  mean,  is  a 
Giant  in  Revolt  all  the  time. 

And  yet  to  look  at  Fothy  you  wouldn't  think  he 
was  a  Modern  Cave  Man.  Not  that  he  looks  like 
a  weakling,  you  know.  But — well,  if  you  get  what 
I  mean — you'd  think  Fothy  might  write  about  vio 
lets  instead  of  thunderbolts. 

Dear  Papa  is  entirely  mistaken  about  him. 

Only  yesterday  dear  Papa  said  to  me,  "Hermione, 
if  you  don't  keep  that  damned  little  vers  librc  runt 
away  from  here  I'll  put  him  to  work,  and  he'll  die 
of  it" 

But  you  couldn't  expect  Papa  to  appreciate  Fothy. 
Papa  is  so  reactionary  and  conservative. 

And  Fothy's  life  is  one  long,  grim,  desperate 
struggle  against  Conventionality,  and  Social  Injus- 

[24] 


Fothergil  Finch,  the  Poet  of  Revolt 

tice,  and  Smugness,  and  the  Established  Order,  and 
Complacence.  He  is  forever  being  a  martyr  to  the 
New  and  True  in  Art  and  Life. 

Last  night  he  read  me  his  latest  poem — one  of  his 
greatest,  he  says — in  which  he  tries  to  tell  just  what 
his  Real  Self  is.  It  goes: 

Look  at  Me ! 

Behold,  I  am  founding  a  New  Movement! 

Observe  me.  ...  I  am  in  Revolt! 

I  revolt! 

Now  persecute  me,  persecute  me,  damn  you,  perse 
cute  me,  curse  you,  persecute  me! 

Philistine, 

Bourgeois, 

Slave, 

Serf, 

Capitalist, 

Respectabilities  that  you  are, 

Persecute  me! 

Bah! 

You  ask  me,  do  you,  what  I  am  in  revolt  against? 

Against  you,  fool,  dolt,  idiot,  against  you,  against 
everything ! 

Against  Heaven,  Hell  and  punctuation  .  .  .  against 
Life,  Death,  rhyme  and  rhythm  .  .  . 

Persecute  me,  now,  persecute  me,  curse  you,  perse 
cute  me! 

[25] 


Hermione 

Slave  that  you  are  .  .  .  what  do  Marriage,  Tooth 
brushes,  Nail-files,  the  Decalogue,  Handker 
chiefs,  Newton's  Law  of  Gravity,  Capital,  Bar 
bers,  Property,  Publishers,  Courts,  Rhyming 
Dictionaries,  Clothes,  Dollars,  mean  to  Me? 

I  am  a  Giant,  I  am  a  Titan,  I  am  a  Hercules  of  Lib 
erty,  I  am  Prometheus,  I  am  the  Jess  Willard 
of  the  New  Cerebral  Pugilism,  I  am  the  Mod 
ern  Cave  Man,  I  am  the  Comrade  of  the  Cos 
mic  Urge,  I  have  kicked  off  the  Boots  of  Super 
stition,  and  I  run  wild  along  the  Milky  Way 
without  ingrowing  toenails, 

I  am  I! 

Curse  you,  what  are  You? 

You  are  only  You ! 

Nothing  more ! 

Ha! 

Bah!  .  .  .  persecute  me,  now  persecute  me! 

Fothy  always  gets  excited  and  trembles  and 
chokes  when  he  reads  his  own  poetry,  and  while 
he  was  reading  it  Papa  came  into  the  room  and 
disgraced  himself  by  asking  him  if  there  was 
any  Money  in  that  kind  of  poetry,  and  Fothy 
was  so  agitated  that  he  fairly  screamed  when  he 
said: 

"Money  .  .  .  money  .  .  .  curse  money!  Money 
is  one  of  the  things  I  am  in  revolt  against.  .  *  . 

[26] 


Fothergil  Finch,  the  Poet  of  Revolt 

Money  is  death  and  damnation  to  the  free  spirit!" 

Papa  said  he  was  sorry  to  hear  that;  he  said  one 
of  his  companies  needed  an  ad  writer,  and  he  didn't 
have  any  objection  to  hiring  a  free  spirit  with  a 
punch,  but  he  couldn't  consider  getting  anyone  to 
write  ads  that  hated  money,  for  there  was  a  salary 
attached  to  the  job. 

And  Fothy  said:  "You  are  trying  to  bribe  me! 
Capitalism  is  casting  its  net  over  me !  You  are  try 
ing  to  make  me  a  serf :  trying  to  silence  a  Free 
Voice!  But  I  will  resist!  I  will  not  be  enslaved! 
I  will  not  write  ads.  I  will  not  have  a  job!" 

And  then  Papa  said  he  was  glad  to  hear  Fothy's 
sentiments.  He  had  been  afraid,  he  said,  that 
Ftathy  had  matrimonial  designs  upon  me.  And  the 
man  who  married  his  daughter  would  probably  have 
to  stand  for  possessing  a  good  deal  of  wealth,  too, 
for  he  had  always  intended  doing  something  very 
handsome  for  his  son-in-law.  So  if  Fothy  didn't 
want  money,  he  wouldn't  want  me,  for  an  enormous 
amount  of  it  would  go  with  me. 

Papa,  you  know,  thinks  he  can  be  awfully  sar 
castic. 

So  many  Earth  Persons  pride  themselves  on  their 
sarcasm,  don't  you  think? 

And  Papa  is  an  Earth  Person  entirely.  I've  got 
his  horoscope.  He  isn't  at  all  spiritual. 

But  you  can  imagine  that  the  whole  scene  was 
[27] 


Hermione 

frightfully  embarrassing  to  me — I  will  never  for 
give  Papa! 

And  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  at  all  about 
Fothy.  But  what  I  do  know  is  this :  once  I  get  my 
mind  made  up,  I  will  not  stand  for  opposition  from 
any  source. 

One  must  be  an  Individualist,  or  perish! 


HOW  THE  SWAMI  HAPPENED  TO  HAVE 
SEVEN  WIVES 

ISN'T  it  terrible  about  that  elephant  at  the  Zoo 
— Oh,  you  know! — it's  like  Gunga  Din,  only, 
of  course,  it  isn't  Gunga  Din  at  all. 

Anyhow,  he's  chained  for  life!  I  suppose  some 
one  gave  him  tobacco  for  a  joke  and  it  made  him 
cross.  I've  heard  of  those  cases,  haven't  you? 

An  elephant  is  such  a — such  a — well,  noble  beast, 
isn't  he? 

It's  transmigration  of  souls  makes  them  that  way, 
perhaps. 

Just  think — the  soul  of  some  Hindu  Howdah 
may  be  in  that  beast ! 

Or  is  it  a  Rajah? 

Anyhow,  it  sits  on  top  of  an  elephant. 

We  took  up  transmigration  of  souls  one  time — 
our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know — 
and  it's  wonderful;  simply  wonderful! 

That  was  when  the  Swami  Brandranath  used  to 
talk  to  us.  The  dear  Swami !  Such  eyes — so  pure 
and  yet  so  magnetic ! — I  have  never  seen  in  a  human 
being. 

091 


Her  mi  one 

The  eye  is  the  window  of  the  soul,  you  know. 

He's  in  jail  now,  the  poor,  dear  Swami.  But  he 
wasn't  really  a  bigamist  at  all.  You  see,  he  had 
seven  spiritual  planes.  All  of  us  do,  only  most  of 
us  don't  know  it.  But  he  could  get  from  one  plane 
to  another  quite  easily. 

Of  course,  he  couldn't  remember  what  he'd  done 
on  one  plane  while  he  was  on  the  next  one  above 
or  below  it.  And  that's  the  way  he  happened  to 
have  seven  wives — one  for  each  spiritual  plane. 

Only  the  Court  took  a  sordid  view  of  it.  It  seems 
there  was  something  about  life  insurance  mixed 
up  with  it,  too. 

The  Occidentals  are  so  apt  to  miss  the  spiritual 
sweetness  of  the  Oriental,  don't  you  think? 

We  are — all  but  the  Leaders  of  Thought,  and  a 
little  group,  here  and  there — so  commonplace. 

Don't  you  loathe  the  commonplace? 

Not  loathe,  really,  of  course — because  the  har 
monious  mind  does  not  let  itself  be  disturbed. 

The  harmonious  mind  realizes  that  dirt  is  only 
useful  matter  in  the  wrong  place,  as  Tennyson  sings 
so  sweetly  somewhere. 

Tennyson  has  quite  gone  out,  of  course.  He  is 
so — so,  well,  if  you  get  what  I  mean — so  mid- 
Victorian,  somehow. 

It  seems  he  was  mid-Victorian  all  the  time,  but 
it's  only  recently  that  it's  been  found  out  on  him. 

[30] 


The  Swami's  Seven  Wives 


Though  I  always  will  think  of  "Come  Into  the 
Garden,  Maud,"  as  one  of  the  world's  sweetest  lit 
tle  epics. 

I'm  very  independent  that  way,  in  spite  of  the 
critics.  After  all,  criticism  comes  down  to  a  ques 
tion  of  individual  taste,  doesn't  it  ?  That  is,  in  the 
final  analysis. 

Independence!  That  is  what  this  age  needs. 
Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  say  to  my 
self :  "Have  I  been  independent  today?  Or  have  I 
failed?" 

I  believe  in  those  little  spiritual  examinations, 
don't  you? 

It  helps  one  to  keep  in  tune  with  the  Infinite,  you 
know. 

The  Infinite!  How  much  is  comprises!  And 
how  little  we  really  understand  it! 

We're  going  to  take  it  up,  the  Infinite,  in  a  serious 
way  soon — our  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Think 
ers,  you  know. 


THE    ROMANTIC    OLD    DAYS 

IT  must  have  been  terribly  difficult  getting  around 
in  the  days  before  automobiles  were  invented, 
or  railroads  or  anything  like  that. 

Though,  of  course,  it  was  wonderfully  romantic, 
too. 

The  old  coaching  days,  particularly,  when  every 
body  blew  on  horns  as  they  drove  from  town  to 
town,  and  there  were  highwaymen  and  cavaliers 
with  swords  and  all  those  people,  you  know,  riding 
by  the  coaches. 

Don't  you  just  dote  on  romance?    I  do! 

But,  of  course,  there's  no  place  for  it  in  our  hur 
ried  modern  life,  and  I  suppose  we  shouldn't  regret 
it. 

But  now  and  then  I  sigh  over  it.  Like  dropping 
a  tear,  you  know,  in  a  dear  old  chest  perfumed  with 
lavender  and  old  roses. 

I  always  say  that  one  can  be  advanced  and  in 
the  van  of  modern  progress,  and  still  drop  a  tear, 
you  know. 

Do  you  think  that  all  this  study  of  sex  hygiene 
means  the  death  of  romance? 

[32] 


The  Romantic  Old  Days 


It's  a  serious  thought,  isn't  it? 

But  what  I  always  say  is:  "Which  of  these 
things  will  do  the  most  good  in  the  world?" 

Especially  good  to  the  poor! 

You  know  how  frightfully  interested  I  am  in  the 
poor. 

I  make  that  my  test.  I  always  say  to  myself : 
"Which  will  do  the  most  good  to  the  great  masses?" 

I  take  such  a  serious  interest  in  the  masses! 

We  should  think  twice  before  we  take  romance 
out  of  their  lives  and  replace  it  with  science  of  any 
kind. 

For,  after  all,  you  know,  they  represent  the 
Future. 

We  should  all  think  of  the  Future! 

That's  what  makes  the  Feminist  Movement  such 
a  "wonderful  thing — it  is  moving  right  straight  ahead 
toward  the  Future! 

I'm  thinking  of  being  a  Suffragist  again.  I  was 
once,  you  know,  but  I  resigned. 

The  sashes  and  banners  are  such  a  frightful  shade 
of  yellow,  you  know.  So  I  quit. 

Beauty,  after  all,  is  the  chief  thing.  What,  after 
all,  do  all  our  reforms  come  to,  if  the  world  is  not 
to  be  made  more  beautiful  because  of  them? 

And  I  simply  cannot  wear  yellow. 


HERMIONE'S   BOSWELL   EXPLAINS 

Believe  me,  'tis  not  with  elation 
I  dwell  on  Hermione's  madness; 

The  result  of  my  rapt  contemplation 
Is  sadness,  a  terrible  sadness! 

I  weep  when  I  note  how  she  drivels ; 

I  sigh  o'er  her  fake  philanthropies; 
I  am  pained  when  I  see  how  she  frivols, 

Like  a  kitten,  with  serious  topics. 

It  is  grief  that  her  mental  condition 

Inspires,  and  not  laughter  or  scorning; 

If  she  has  any  use,  'tis  her  Mission 
To  stand  as  a  Horrible  Warning. 

I  am  moral,  essentially  moral; 

I  am  grave,  and  hate  everything  trashy, 
And  that  is  the  reason  I  quarrel 

With  intellects  flighty  and  flashy. 

I  yearn  for  the  truth,  I  am  earnest ; 
I  yearn  to  face  facts  without  blinking, 
[34] 


Hermione's  Boswell  Explains 

Of  all  of  my  yearns,  quite  the  yearnest 
Is  my  yearn  to  be  thorough  in  thinking. 

That's  why  I'm  severe  with  this  darling, 
Nor  pardon  nor  whitewash  nor  gloze  her, — • 

The  linnet — the  parrot — the  starling! 
I  weep  over  her  and  expose  her. 


SYMBOLS  AND  DEW-HOPPING 

LAST  week  the  loveliest  man  lectured  to  us — 
to  our  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers, 
you  know — on  the  Ultimate  Symbolism.  In 
art  and  life  both,  you  know. 

It  was  simply  wonderful — wonderful! 

Art,  you  know,  used  to  be  full  of  symbolism. 

But  now,  it  seems,  symbolism  has  dropped  out 
of  Art,  and  Nature  has  taken  it  up. 

Odd,  isn't  it?  But  really  not  surprising  when 
you  come  to  think  about  it. 

For,  you  know,  Nature  is  always  trying  to  keep 
up  with  advanced  ideas — evolving  and  evolving  to 
ward  the  Superman. 

And  the  Superwoman,  too. 

I  think  it  is  the  duty  of  us  who  are  advanced 
thinkers  to  give  Nature  a  worthy  ideal  to  evolve 
toward,  don't  you? 

To  set  Nature  a  mark  to  come  up  to,  you  know. 

For  what  is  the  use  of  evolution  if  it  doesn't 
evolve  forward  instead  of  backward? 

And  the  Best  People,  I  think,  should  feel  a  sense 
of  social  responsibility  and  give  evolution  a  model. 

[36] 


Symbols  and  Dew-Hopping 


Each  should  be  a  Symbol — that's  what  I  always 
ask  myself  each  night  now :  "Have  I  been  a  Symbol 
today?  Or  have  I  failed  to  be  a  Symbol?" 

Down  at  the  beach  last  week  I  nearly  drowned — • 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you  hadn't  heard  of  it?  It 
was  frightful. 

I'd  always  heard  that,  when  a  person  sinks,  his 
whole  past  life  passes  before  him  in  review. 

But  it  didn't  with  me.  What  I  said  as  I  went 
down  was:  "Have  I  been  a  Symbol?  Or  have  I 
failed?" 

And  the  life  guard  who  got  me  out — he  was  sim 
ply  the  most  gorgeous  man! — Burned  bronze,  you 
know,  and  with  shoulders  like  a  Greek  god! — and 
with  the  most  wonderful  eyes  and  white  teetH — he 
asked  me,  the  guard  did,  "What,  marm?" 

It  was  fearfully  disappointing!  Sometimes  they 
are  college  men,  you  know,  just  life-guarding 
through  the  summer.  But  would  any  college  man 
have  said,  "What,  marm?" 

And  then  he  went  and  saved  a  blonde  creature 
in  the  most  scandalous  bathing  suit  I  ever  saw. 

He  saved  one  in  the  most  business-like  way,  too, 
as  if  he  were  a  waiter,  you  know,  passing  from  one 
table  to  another. 

No  wonder  the  social  fabric  is  crumbling  when 
quite  impossible  people  like  life  guards  permit  them 
selves  to  become  blase  over  such  matters! 

[37] 


Hermione 

The  lower  classes  are  very  discouraging  anyhow, 
don't  you  think? — after  all  we  do  for  them  in  the 
way  of  philanthropy  and  sociology  and  uplifting 
them  generally,  you  know! 

Of  course,  I  haven't  lost  my  interest  in  sociology 
— not  by  any  means.  I  always  hold  fast  the  thought 
that  all  the  world  are  brothers. 

I'm  taking  up  Dew-hopping  next  week.  It's  a 
wonderful  new  nerve  cure.  Formerly  it  was  quite 
the  thing  to  walk  barefoot  in  the  dew  at  dawn. 

But  at  this  new  place  I've  discovered  they  don't 
merely  walk — that's  going  out,  quite.  They  hop. 
Like  frogs  and  toads,  you  know. 

It  brings  the  patients  into  closer  kinship  with  the 
electric  currents  of  the  earth,  hopping  does,  the 
doctor  says.  It's  wonderful! 

He  is  the  loveliest  man — w:th  mystic  eyes! — the 
doctor  is. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SNORE 

FOTHERGIL  FINCH,  Hermione's  friend,  the 
vers  libre  poet,  dodges  through  life  harried 
and  hunted  by  one  pursuing  Fear. 

"Some  day,"  he  said  to  me — 

(It  is  Hermione's  Bosvvell  who  is  speaking  in  thb 
sketch,  in  the  first  person,  and  not  Hermione,  the 
incomparable. ) — 

"Some  day,"  Fothergil  Finch  said  to  me,  the 
other  night,  in  a  tone  of  intense,  bitter  conviction, 
"some  day  It  will  get  me!  Some  day  It  will  over 
take  me.  The  great  Beast,  Popularity,  which  pur 
sues  me!  Some  day  It  will  clutch  me  and  tear  me 
and  devour  my  Soul !  Some  day  I  will  be  a  Popu 
lar  Writer!" 

It  is  my  own  impression  that  Fothergil's  fears 
are  exaggerated ;  but  they  are  very  real  to  him.  He 
visualizes  his  own  soul  as  a  fugitive  climbing  higher 
and  higher,  running  faster  and  faster,  to  escape 
this  Beast.  Perhaps  Fothergil  secretly  hopes  that 
the  speed  of  his  going  will  induce  combustion,  and 
he  will  leap  from  the  topmost  hills  of  Art,  flaming, 
directly  into  the  heavens,  there  to  burn  and  shine 

[391 


Hermione 

immortally,  an  authentic  star.     Well,  well,  we  all 
have  our  little  plans,  our  little  vanities! 

"Fothergil,"  I  said,  cheerily,  "Popularity  has  not 
overtaken  you  yet.  Cheer  up — perhaps  it  never 
will." 

We  were  in  Fothergil's  studio  in  Greenwich  Vil 
lage,  where  I  had  gone  to  see  how  his  poem  on 
Moonlight  was  getting  along.  He  strode  to  the 
window.  Fothergil  is  not  tall,  and  he  is  slightly 
pigeon-toed — the  fleshly  toes  of  Fothergil  symbolize 
the  toes  of  his  ever-fleeing  soul — but  he  strides.  Fe 
male  poets  undulate.  Erotic  male  poets  saunter. 
Tramp  poets  lurch  and  swagger.  Fothergil,  being 
a  vers  libre  poet,  a  Prophet  of  the  Virile,  a  Little 
Brother  of  the  Cosmic  Urge,  is  compelled  by  what 
his  verse  is  to  stride  vigorously  across  rooms  as  if 
they  were  vast  desert  places,  in  spite  of  what 
his  toes  are.  He  strode  magnificently,  tri 
umphantly,  to  the  window  and  flung  the  shade 
up,  and  looked  out  at  the  amorphous  mist  creep 
ing  in  across  the  roofs.  The  crawling  fog  must 
have  suggested  his  great,  gray  Dread,  for  presently 
he  turned  away  with  a  shudder  and  sank  upon  a 
couch  and  moaned. 

'Ah,  Heaven !  Popularity !  The  disgrace  of  it — 
the  horror  of  it!  Popularity!  Ignominy!  When  It 
catches  me — when  it  happens— 

He  plucked  from  his  pocket  a  small  phial  and  held 
[40] 


The  Song  of  the  Snore 


it  up  toward  the  light  and  gazed  upon  it  desperately 
and  raptly. 

"I  am  never  without  this!"  he  said.  "It  is  my 
means  of  escape.  I  will  not  be  taken  unawares! 
I  carry  it  always.  At  night  it  is  beneath  my  pillow. 
The  day  it  happens — the  moment  I  feel  myself  in 
the  grip  of  Popularity 

I  caught  his  hand ;  in  his  excitement  he  was  rais 
ing  the  poison  to  his  lips. 

"What  I  cannot  understand,  Fothergil,"  I  said, 
"is  why  a  Poet  of  the  Virile,  a  Reincarnation  of  the 
Cave  Man — excuse  me,  but  that  is  what  you  are 
being  this  year,  is  it  not  ? — should  give  way  to  Fear. 
Is  it  not  more  in  character  to  meet  this  Beast  and 
slay  It  ?  Is  there  not  a  certain  contradiction  between 
your  profession  and  your  practice?" 

"More  than  a  contradiction,"  he  said  eagerly.  "It 
is  more  than  contradictory!  It  is  paradoxical!" 

I  eliminate  much  that  followed.  When  Fothergil 
gets  started  on  the  paradox,  time  passes.  He  is 
never  really  interested  in  things  until  he  has  dis 
covered  the  paradoxical  quality  in  them.  Some 
times  I  think  that  his  enthusiasm  over  himself  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  he  discovered  early  in  life  that 
he  himself  was  a  paradox — and  sometimes  I  think 
that  discovery  is  the  explanation  of  his  enthusiasm 
for  the  paradox. 

"What,"  said  Fothergil,  "is  the  most  paradoxical 


Hermione 

thing  in  the  world  ?  The  Human  Snore !  It  seems 
Ugly — yet  it  is  Beautiful!  It  seems  a  trivial  func 
tion  of  the  body — and  yet  it  is  the  Key  to  the 
Soul " 

"The  Key  to  the  Soul?" 

"Man  sleeps,"  he  said,  "and  his  Conscious  Mind 
is  in  abeyance.  But  his  Subconscious  Mind  is  still 
awake.  It  functions.  It  has  its  opportunity  to  utter 
itself.  The  Snore  is  the  Voice  of  the  Soul!  And 
not  only  the  Soul  of  the  individual  but  of  the  Soul 
of  the  race.  All  the  experiences  of  man,  in  his 
ascent  from  the  mire  to  his  present  altitude,  are 
retained  in  the  Subconscious  Mind — his  fights,  his 
struggles,  his  falls,  his  recoveries.  And  his  dreams 
and  nightmares  are  racial  memories  of  these  things. 
Snores  are  the  language  in  which  he  expresses  them. 
Interpret  the  Snore,  and  you  have  the  psychic  his 
tory  of  the  ascent  of  man  from  Caliban  to  Shake 
speare  ! 

"And  I  can  interpret  it!  I  have  listened  to  a 
million  Snores,  and  learned  the  language  of  the 
Soul!  Night  after  night,  for  years,  I  harked  to 
the  Human  Snore — in  summer,  hastening  from 
park  bench  to  beach  and  back  again;  in  winter, 
haunting  the  missions  and  lodging  houses.  Ah, 
Heavens!  with  what  devotion,  with  what  passion 
of  the  discoverer,  have  I  not  pursued  the  Human 
Snore!  I  have  gone  miles  to  listen  to  some  snore 

[42] 


The  Song  of  the  Snore 


that  was  reported  to  be  peculiar ;  I  have  denied  my 
self  luxuries,  pleasures,  and  at  times  even  food,  in 
order  to  hire  reluctant  persons  to  Snore  for  me! 

"And  I  have  written  the  Epic  of  the  Snore  in 
vers  libre.  You  shall  hear  the  prelude !" 

And  this  is  Fothergil's  prelude: 

Snore  me  a  song  of  the  soul, 

Oh,  sleeper,  snore! 

Whistle  me,  wheeze  me,  grunkle  and  grunt,  gurgle 

and  snort  me  a  Virile  stave! 
Snore  till  the  Cosmos  shakes ! 
On  the  wings  of  a  snore  I  fly  backward  a  billion 

years,  and  grasp  the  mastodon  and  I  tear  him 

limb  from  limb, 
And  with  his  thigh  bone  I  beat  the  dinosaur  to 

death,  for  I  am  Virile! 
Snore !     Snore !     Snore ! 
Snore,  O  struggling  and  troubled  and  squirming 

and   suffering  and   choking  and  purple-faced 

sleeper,  snore! 
Snore  me  the  sound  of  the  brutal  struggle  when  the 

big  bull  planets  bellowed  and  fought  with  one 

another  in  the  bloody  dawn  of  time  for  the 

love  of  little  yellow-haired  moons, 
Snore ! 
Snore  till  Chaos  raps  with  his  boot  on  the  walls  of 

Cosmos  and  kicks  to  the  landlord ! 
[43] 


Hermione 

Turn,  choke,  twist  and  struggle,  sleeper,  and  snore 

me  the  song  of  life  in  the  making, 
Sneeze  me  a  universe  full  of  star-dust, 
Snore  me  back  to  the  days  when  I  was  a  Cave  Man, 

and  with  my  bare  hands  slew  the  walrus,  for 

I  am  Virile! 
Snore  the  death-rattle  of  the  walrus,  O  struggling 

sleeper,  snore! 
Snore  me 

But  I  was  compelled  to  leave.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  it,  Fothergil  says.  If  you  know  Fothergil 
you  are  aware  that  when  he  declaims  his  Virile 
verses  he  becomes  excited;  he  swells  physically; 
sometimes  he  looks  quite  five  feet  tall  in  his  mo 
ments  of  expansion;  all  this  is  very  bad  for  him. 
More  than  once  the  declamation  of  his  poem,  "My 
self  and  the  Cosmic  Urge,"  has  sent  him  shaking 
to  the  tea  urn. 

Before  I  left  I  was  able  to  calm  him  somewhat. 
But  with  calm  came  reflection.  And  with  reflection 
came  his  great,  gray  Dread  again. 

When  I  left,  Fothergil  was  looking  out  of  the 
window  and  shuddering,  as  if  the  Monster  Popu 
larity  might  be  hiding  behind  the  neighboring  chim 
neys.  One  hand  clasped  the  phial  caressingly. 

But  somehow  I  doubt  that  Fothergil  will  ever  be 
compelled  to  drink  the  poison. 

[44] 


BALLADE  OF  UNDERSTANDING 

"Does  not  the  World's  stupidity 

At  times  make  Serious  Thinkers  fret?" 

I  asked  the  fair  Hermione; 

"Sometimes,"     she     said,     "and     yet  .  .  .  and 

yet  .  .  . 

We  feel  we  owe  the  World  a  debt !" 
She  waved  a  slim,  bejeweled  hand, 
She  brooded  on  some  vague  regret.  .  .  . 

"I  hope,"  she  sighed,  "you'll  Understand?' 

"Is  not  your  high  Philosophy 

Too  subtle  for  the  Mob  to  get?" 

I  asked.  .  .  .  She  pondered  seriously; 

"Sometimes,"     she     said,     "and     yet  .  .  .  and 

yet  .  .  ." 

She  trifled  with  an  amulet 
Imported  from  some  Orient  land.  .  .  . 
"What  fish  can  burst  the  Cosmic  Net?  .  .  . 

I  hope,"  she  sighed,  "you'll  Understand." 

"Art,  Science  and  Psychology, 
Causes  that  rise  and  shine  and  set, 

[451 


Hermione 

Do  all  these  never  weary  thee?" — 

"Sometimes,"     she     said,     "and     yet  .  .  .  and 

yet  .  .  . 

Would  Thought  and  Life  have  ever  met 
Unless"  .  .  .    She  paused.    Her  lashes  fanned 
Her  eyes,  with  tears  of  ardor  wet.  .  .  . 

"I  hope,"  she  sighed,  "you'll  understand !" 

"Princess,  is  Bull  the  One  Best  Bet?"— 

"Sometimes,"     she     said,     "and     yet  .  .  .  and 
yet  .  .  ." 

She  mused,  and  then;  in  accents  bland, 
"I  hope,"  she  said,  "you'll  Understand!" 


HERMIONE  ON  FASHIONS  AND  WAR 

ISN'T  war  frightful,  though;  simply  frightful! 
What  Sherman  said  it  was,  you  know. 
Though  they  say  there's  an  economic  condi 
tion  back  of  this  war,  too. 

We  took  up  economics  not  long  ago — our  Little 
Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know — and  gave 
an  entire  evening  to  it. 

It's  wonderful;  simply  wonderful! 

Without  economics,  you  know,  there  couldn't  be 
any  Civilization. 

That's  a  thought  that  should  give  one  pause, 
isn't  it? 

Although,  of  course,  this  war  may  destroy  civili 
zation  entirely. 

If  I  thought  it  was  likely  to  do  that  I  would  join 
in  the  Peace  Demonstration  at  once — or  have  they 
had  it  already? — the  march  for  peace,  you  know! 
Anyhow,  no  matter  what  the  personal  sacrifice 
might  be,  I  would  join  in.  Not  that  I  care  to  march 
in  the  dust.  And  black  never  did  become  me.  But 
I  suppose  there  will  be  some  autos.  And,  well — 
one  must  sacrifice. 

[471 


Hermione 

For  if  Civilization  dies  out,  what  will  become  of 
us  then? 

Will  we  revert  to  the  Primordial? 

Will  the  Cave  Man  triumph? 

The  very  idea  gives  me  the  creeps! 

Because,  you  know,  the  Cave  Man  is  all  right — 
and  the  Primitive,  and  all  that — as  a  protest  against 
Decadence — and  in  a  literary  way — but  if  all  men 
were  Cave  Men! 

Well,  you  know,  the  thought  is  frightful ;  simply 
frightful! 

You  can  have  a  feeling  for  just  one  Cave  Man, 
you  know,  in  the  midst  of  Civilization,  when  a 
million  Cave  Men  would 

But  the  idea  is  too  terrible  for  words! 

And  in  this  crisis  it  is  Woman  who  must  save 
the  world. 

The  loveliest  woman — she's  quite  advanced, 
really,  and  has  the  most  charming  toilettes — told 
our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers  the  other 
night  that  this  is  the  time  when  Woman  must  rule 
the  world. 

It  is  the  test  of  the  New  Woman. 

If  anything  is  saved  from  the  wreck  it  will  be 
because  of  Her. 

She  can  write  letters  to  the  papers,  you  know, 
against  war  and — and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know. 

[48] 


Hermione  on  Fashions  and  War 

And,  of  course,  if  the  Germans  and  Russians  and 
English  do  all  get  together  and  conquer  Paris,  I 
suppose  they  won't  kill  the  modistes  and  designers. 

Civilization,  you  know,  is  not  so  easily  killed 
after  all.  The  Romans  were  conquered,  you  know, 
but  all  their  styles  and  philosophies  and  things  were 
taken  up  by  the  Medes  and  Persians  who  conquered 
them,  and  have  remained  unchanged  in  those  coun 
tries  ever  since. 

But  in  a  time  like  this,  it's  comforting  to  have 
a  Cause  to  cling  to. 

No  matter  what  happens,  the  advanced  thinkers 
must  cling  together  and  make  their  Cause  count. 

And  if  England  should  conquer  France,  and  put 
a  king  on  the  throne  there  again,  no  doubt  there  will 
be  a  great  revival  of  fashion,  as  there  was  in  the 
days  of  Napoleon  I.  and  the  Empress  Eugenie. 

But  if  all  the  advanced  thinkers  in  the  world 
could  only  get  together  in  one  place  and  think  Peace 
and  Harmony — sit  down  in  circles,  you  know,  and 
send  Psychic  Vibrations  across  the  ocean — who  can 
tell  but  what  the  war  might  not  end  ? 

The  triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  you  know. 

I'm  going  to  propose  the  idea  to  our  little  group 
and  pass  it  on  to  all  the  other  little  groups. 

I'd  be  willing  to  give  up  an  entire  evening  to  it 
myself. 


URGES  AND  DOGS 

WE  had  quite  a  discussion  the  other  evening 
— our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers, 
you  know — as  to  whether  it  was  Idealism 
or  Materialism  that  had  gotten  the  Germans  into 
this  dreadful  war. 

Isn't  Idealism  just  simply  wonderful! 

Fothy  Finch  said  it  was  neither;  he  said  it  was 
the  Racial  Urge. 

It's  like  the  Cosmic  Urge,  you  know;  except  it's 
altogether  German,  Fothy  explained. 

Every  once  in  a  while  you  hear  of  a  New  Urge. 
That's  one  of  the  things  that  distinguishes  Modern 
Thought  from  the  old  philosophies,  don't  you 
think? 

Although,  of  course,  the  Cosmic  Urge  isn't  what 
it  used  to  be  a  year  or  two  ago. 

It's  become — er — well,  vulgarized,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean.  Everybody  is  writing  and  talking 
about  it  now,  don't  you  know. 

I  think,  myself,  it's  going  out,  soon.  And  a 
leader — a  real  pioneer  in  thought,  you  know, — 
would  scarcely  care  to  talk  about  it  now  without  a 
smile. 

[50] 


Urges  and  Dogs 


I've  just  about  dropped  it  myself.  It's  the  same 
way  with  everything  exclusive.  It  soon  becomes 
common. 

Really,  I  hadn't  worn  my  white  summer  furs 
three  weeks  before  I  saw  so  many  imitations  that 
I  just  simply  had  to  lay  them  aside. 

Don't  you  think  that  people  who  take  up  things 
like  that,  after  the  real  leaders  have  dropped  them, 
are  frightfully  lacking  in  subtlety? 

Oh,  Subtlety!  Subtlety!  What  would  modern 
thought  be  without  Subtlety? 

Personally,  I  just  simply  hate  the  Obvious.  It's 
so — so — well,  so  easily  seen  through,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean. 

Fothy  Finch  said  to  me  only  the  other  day,  "Has 
it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Hermione,  that  you  are  not 
an  Obvious  sort  of  person?" 

It  is  almost  uncanny  the  way  Fothergil  Finch 
can  read  my  thoughts  sometimes.  We  are  both  so 
very  psychic. 

Mamma  said  to  me  last  night,  "You  are  seeing  a 
great  deal  of  Mr.  Finch,  Hermione.  Do  you  think 
it  is  right  to  encourage  him  if  you  don't  intend  to 
marry  him  ?  What  are  your  intentions  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Finch?" 

I  didn't  answer  her  at  all — poor  dear  Mamma  is 
so  old-fashioned! 

But  I  thought  to  myself 

[51] 


Her  mi  one 

Well,  would  it  be  so  impossible ? 

Of  course,  marriage  is  a  serious  thing-.  One  must 
look  at  it  from  all  points  of  view,  if  one  has  a 
Social  Conscience. 

He  has  a  lovely  way  with  dogs,  Fothy  has.  They 
trust  him  instinctively — he  is  just  dear  with  them. 
I  have  some  beauties  now,  you  know.  They  are 
getting  so  they  won't  let  anyone  but  Fothy  bathe 
them. 


WE  took  up  the  Bhagavad  Gita — our  Little 
Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers,  you  know 
— in  quite  a  thorough  way  the  other 
evening. 

Isn't  the  Bhagavad  Gita  just  simply  wonderful! 

It  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Bagdad,  you 
know — though  at  first  glance  it  seems  quite  like  it 
might,  doesn't  it? 

Of  course,  they're  both  Oriental — aren't  you  just 
simply  wild  about  Oriental  things? — but  really, 
they're  quite  different. 

The  Bhagavad  Gita,  you  know,  is  all  about  Rein 
carnation  and  Karma,  and  all  those  lovely  old 
things. 

When  I  start  my  Salon  I'm  going  to  have  a 
Bhagavad  Gita  Evening — all  in  costume,  you  know. 

I  find  that  when  I  dress  in  harmony  with  the 
Idea  I  radiate  it  so  much  more  effectively,  if  you 
get  what  I  mean. 

Fothergil  Finch  is  the  same  way. 

He  writes  his  best  vers  libre  things  in  a  purple 
dressing-gown. 

[S3] 


Hermione 

There's  an  amber-colored  pane  of  glass  in  his 
studio  skylight,  and  he  has  to  sit  and  wait  and  wait 
and  wait  until  the  moonlight  falls  through  that  pane 
onto  his  paper,  and  then  it  only  stays  long  enough 
so  he  can  write  a  few  lines,  and  he  can't  go  on  with 
the  poem  until  it  comes  again. 

He  brought  me  one  last  night — he  wrote  it  to  me 
— yes,  really! — and  he  waited  and  waited  for 
enough  moonlight  to  do  it,  and  caught  a  terrible 
cold  in  his  head,  poor  dear  Fothy. 

It  goes  like  this: 

Poppies,  poppies,  silver  poppies  in  the  moonlight, 

poppies ! 
Silver  poppies, 

Silver  poppies  in  the  moonlight, 
Youth! 
Poppies,  poppies,   crimson  poppies  in  the  sunset, 

love! 

Poppies,  poppies,  poppies! 
Black  poppies  in  the  midnight, 
Death ! 

Three  colors  of  poppies! 
One  color  is  silver, 
The  second  color  is  crimson, 
The  third  color  is  black, 

And   if  there  were  a  fourth  color  it  would  be 
green! 

[54] 


Moods  and  Poppies 


Alas!   Why  is  there  never  a  fourth  color? 

Poppies,  poppies,  poppies,  but  no  Green  Poppy! 

I  asked  the  little  crippled  girl  who  sells  poppies  to 
buy  bread  for  the  drunken  father  who  beats 
her, 

And  she  said,  "I,  too,  seek  the  fourth  color!" 

I  asked  the  boy  who  drives  the  grocer's  delivery 
wagon,  the  old  apple  woman  without  teeth,  the 
morgue  keeper,  the  plumber,  the  janitor,  the 
red-armed  waffle  baker  in  the  window  of  a 
restaurant  full  of  marble-topped  tables  and 
pallid-looking  girls,  the  subway  guard  and  the 
millionaire, 

And  they  all  said, 

"Poppies,  poppies,  poppies, 

We  have  never  known  but  three  colors  1" 

I  am  a  Great  Virile  Spirit; 

I,  with  my  Ego, 

I  will  give  the  world  its  Desire ! 

I,  the  strong! 

I,  the  daring! 

I  will  create  a  Green  Poppy! 

That  about  being  Virile  is  just  like  Pothy!  He 
prides  himself  on  being  Virile,  you  know — poor, 
dear  Fothy! 

He  said  until  he  saw  me  he  had  always  been  sat 
isfied  with  silver  and  red  and  black  poppies,  but 

[55] 


Hermione 

as  soon  as  he  knew  me  he  felt  there  must  be  a 
Green  Poppy  somewhere. 

It  is  likely  a  mood  of  my  soul,  you  know — the 
Green  Poppy  is ! 

Isn't  it  simply  wonderful! 


CONCENTRATION 

ISN'T  it  just  simply  terrible  the  way  the  Balkans 
are  bombarding  Venice  ...  all  those  beauti 
ful  Doges  and  things,  you  know. 

I  suppose  there  will  be  nothing  left,  just  simply 
nothing,  of  the  city  that  Byron  wrote  about  in — * 
in — what  was  it?  Oh,  yes,  in  "Childe  Harold  to 
the  Dark  Tower  Came." 

That's  one  comforting  thing  to  think  of  if  this 
country  ever  gets  into  war,  isn't  it? — I  mean  that 
we  haven't  any  of  those  lovely  old  things  that  can 
be  bombarded,  you  know. 

I  suppose  if  we  ever  did  get  into  war  someone 
like  Edison  would  invent  something  quick,  you 
know,  and  it  would  be  all  over  in  a  few  hours. 

Isn't  inventive  science  wonderful!  Just  simply 
wonderful ! 

It's  so — so — well,  so  dynamic,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean.  Isn't  it? 

Don't  you  just  dote  on  dynamic  things? 

Dynamic  personalities,  especially. 

I've  often  thought  if  I  had  it  to  do  over  again 
I'd  go  in  less  for  psychics  and  more  for  dynamics. 

[57] 


Her  ml  one 

But  then  there  are  so  many  things  that  a  modern 
thinker  must  keep  up  with,  aren't  there? 

And  it's  easy  enough  to  concentrate  one's  mind  on 
one  or  two  things,  but  I  often  find  it  terribly  diffi 
cult  to  concentrate  on  ten  or  twelve  different  things 
all  at  the  same  time. 

And  one  must  if  one  is  to  keep  up  with  the  very 
latest  in  Thought  and  Life. 

Concentration!  Concentration!  That  is  the  key 
to  it  all !  Nearly  every  night  when  I  am  alone  with 
my  own  Ego  I  go  into  the  Silences  for  a  little  period 
of  Spiritual  Self-Examination  and  I  always  ask  my 
self:  "Have  I  Concentrated  today?  Really  Con 
centrated?  Or  have  I  failed?" 

I  call  these  little  times  my  Psychic  Inquisitions. 

In  the  hurry  of  this  crowded  age  one  must  find 
time  to  get  alone  with  one's  self,  must  one  not? 
Fothy  Finch  has  written  a  beautiful  thing  about  the 
hurry  of  this  crowded  age  which  I  wish  everyone 
could  hang  over  his  desk. 

Well,  I  must  be  going  on  now.  I  have  a  com 
mittee  meeting  for  this  afternoon.  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  remember  whether  it's  about  suffrage — 
Oh,  yes,  I  marched ! — or  about  some  relief  fund. 


SOUL  MATES 

I'M  taking  up  Bergson  this  week. 
Next  week  I'm  going  to  take  up  Etruscan 
vases  and  the  Montessori  system. 

Oh,  no,  I  haven't  lost  my  interest  in  sociology. 

Only  the  other  night  we  went  down  in  the  auto 
and  watched  the  bread  line. 

Of  course,  one  can  take  up  too  many  things. 

It's  the  spirit  in  which  you  take  a  thing  up  that 
counts. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  spirit  in  which  you  take 
a  thing  up  counts  more  than  the  thing  itself — counts 
in  its  effect  on  you,  you  know. 

Of  course,  the  way  to  get  the  real  meaning  out 
of  any  thing  is  to  put  yourself  in  a  receptive  atti 
tude. 

In  serious  things  the  attitude  counts  for  every 
thing.  One  mustn't  scoff. 

If  you  look  at  it  seriously  and  scientifically  you'll 
see  there's  a  great  deal  more  than  you  suspected 
in  all  this  affinity  and  soul  mate  craze,  for  in 
stance. 

Not  that  I  care  much  for  the  words  "soul  mate" 
[59] 


Hermione 

and  "affinity"  particularly;  they  have  been  so  vul 
garized,  somehow. 

The  Best  People  don't  use  thoce  terms  any  more. 

Psychic  harmony  is  the  new  term. 

The  loveliest  man  explained  all  about  it  to  us  the 
other  day.  I  belong  to  a  Little  Group  of  Thinkers, 
who  take  a  serious  interest  in  these  things,  you 
know. 

We  are  trying  to  find  out  how  to  make  our 
psychic  powers  count  for  the  betterment  of  the 
world.  I  am  very  psychic.  Some  are  not. 

This  man  had  the  most  interesting  eyes  and  the 
silkiest  beard,  and  he  said  his  aura  was  pink. 

If  he  should  meet  a  girl,  you  know,  with  an  aura 
just  the  shade  of  pink  that  his  aura  is,  why  then 
they  would  know  they  were  in  psychic  harmony. 

Simple,  isn't  it?  But  then  all  truly  great  ideas 
are  simple,  aren't  they? 

But  if  his  aura  was  blue,  and  her  aura  was  yel 
low,  then,  of  course,  they  would  quarrel.  That's 
;what  makes  so  much  domestic  unhappiness. 

But  he  said  something  that  gave  me  the  most 
'frightfully  insecure  feeling. 

He  said  the  aura  changes  its  color  as  the  soul 
progresses. 

Two  people  may  be  in  harmony  today,  and  both 
have  pink  auras,  and  in  a  year  hers  may  be  green 
and  his  golden. 

[60] 


Soul  Mates 


What  desperate  chances  a  woman  takes  when 
she  marries,  doesn't  she? 

I  sometimes  think  life  must  have  been  a  much 
more  comfortable  thing  before  the  world  got  to 
be  so  terribly  advanced. 

But,  of  course,  it  is  our  duty  to  sacrifice  personal 
comfort  for  the  future  of  the  race  and  the  better 
ment  of  the  world. 

As  I  was  looking  at  the  bread  line  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  the  chief  difference  between  this 
advanced  age  and  other  ages  was  in  the  fact  that 
people  today  are  willing  to  take  a  serious  interest 
in  such  things. 

People  are  willing  to  sacrifice  themselves  today, 
you  know. 

It  is  food  for  optimism,  don't  you  think  ? 

Not  that  I  was  really  so  uncomfortable  in  the 
auto,  you  know.  I  had  on  my  new  mink  coat 


WE'VE  been  going  in  for    Astrological  Re 
search  lately — our  Little  Group  of  Mod 
ern    Thinkers,    you    know — and    we've 
picked  our  own  personal  stars. 

Only  it  seems  such  a  shame,  doesn't  it,  that  one 
isn't  allowed  to  change  stars?  Keeping  the  same 
star  all  your  life  is  rather  monotonous,  don't  you 
think? 

Though,  of  course,  if  one  changed  and  got  some 
one  else's  star  things  might  be  frightfully  com 
plicated,  mightn't  they? 

But  it  would  make  a  charming  little  story, 
wouldn't  it,  for  a  girl  to  diange  stars,  you  know, 
and  find  that  her  new  star  belonged  to  some  quite 
nice  young  man,  and,  of  course,  after  that,  their  des 
tinies  would  be  one. 

I  get  some  of  the  most  original  plots  for  stories ! 

Fothergil  Finch  has  often  said  to  me  that  that 
is  one  difference  between  genius  and  talent.  When 
you  have  genius,  you  know,  things  like  that  just 
come  to  you;  but  if  you  only  have  talent  you  must 
work  and  work  for  them. 

[62] 


Hermione  Takes  Up  Literature 

"If  I  only  had  your  spontaneity,  Hermione!" 
Fothergil  often  says. 

And  really,  it's  never  been  any  trouble  for  me  at 
all  to  dash  off  an  idea,  though  of  course  they 
would  have  to  be  touched  up  by  the  editors  a  little 
before  they  could  be  printed. 

Fothergil  said  the  other  night  I  should  try  po 
etry. 

"Why,  Fothy,"  I  said,  "if  I  lived  a  hundred  years 
I  never  could  make  two  lines  rhyme  with  each 
other!" 

But  he  said  rhyme  was  out  of  fashion  anyhow, 
and — would  you  believe  it  ? — while  we  were  talking 
I  got  an  idea  for  a  poem  and  just  dashed  it  off 
then  and  there — a  vers  libre  poem  you  know,  and  it 
goes: 

What  becomes  of 

People  when  they  die? 

I  used  to  ask  when  I  was  a  little  child, 

And  now  even  since 

I  am  grown  up  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know! 

"Fothy,"  I  said,  "it  was  so  easy — that  makes  me 
afraid  it  isn't  really  good!" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "that  modesty  proves  you  are  a 
genius!  Heavens,  what  would  I  not  give  to 
have  your  spontaneity,  your  modesty,  your  spon 
taneity " 

[63] 


Hermione 

But  I  interrupted  him.  Another  idea  had  come 
to  me — just  like  that,  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — 
I  dashed  off  another  one,  right  then  and  there !  It 
went: 

/  see  the  rain  fall. 

It  is  no  effort  for  the  rain  to  fall. 

Why  is  it  no  effort? 

Because  it  falls  spontaneously! 

O  Spontaneity!    Spontaneity! 

Rain  is  genius, 

Genius  is  rain! 

Fall,  fall,  rain! 

Fothy  is  going  to  get  them  printed — he  knows  a 
lot  of  vers  libre  publishers — if  Papa  will  only  put 
up  the  money.  And  one  nice  thing  about  poor  dear 
Papa  is  that  he  always  will  put  it  up. 

So  that  night  I  wrote  twenty  or  thirty  more 
of  them,  and  they  were  all  good — all  works  of 
genius — they  all  came  to  me  just  like  the  first  ones ! 

The  last  one  came  to  me  just  as  I  was  going  to 
bed.  I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  the  moon 
and  ran  and  got  a  pencil  and  wrote: 

/  see  the  moon  out  of  the  window. 
I  wonder  what  it  thinks  of  me? 
Wouldn't  the  moon  and  I  both  be  surprised 
[64] 


Hermione  Takes  Up  Literature 

If  we  found  that  neither  one  of  us 
Thought  anything  at  all  about  the  other? 

The  book's  going  to  be  vellum,  you  know,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  I'm  going  to  have  a  gown  just 
like  the  cover  and  give  a  fete  when  it  comes  out. 

The  worst  thing  about  being  literary,  though,  is 
that  it  makes  one  feel  so  responsible  for  the  gift, 
if  you  know  what  I  mean,  doesn't  it  ? 


THE  WORLD  IS  GETTING  BETTER 

DR.  JAGADES  CHUNDER  BOSE  says  that 
plants  are  almost  as  sensitive  as  human  be 
ings — they  have  feelings  and  susceptibili 
ties,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Isn't  it  wonderful  how  the  Hindus  find  these 
things  out? 

Soul  speaking  to  soul,  I  suppose. 

But  I  have  scarcely  been  able  to  eat  comfortably 
since  I  read  it. 

Every  time  I  sit  down  to  a  salad  it  makes  me 
feel  quite  like  a  cannibal ! 

And  to  think,  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  becoming 
a  vegetarian,  too! 

I  suppose  to  be  on  the  safe  side  one  should  eat 
nothing  but  minerals. 

But,  of  course,  advanced  thinkers  will  have  to 
take  the  matter  up  seriously  and  discover  a  way 
out — some  day  we  will  live  on  aromas  and  elec 
tricity,  no  doubt. 

Don't  you  think  the  world  is  growing  kinder? 
A  hundred  years  ago,  for  instance,  no  one  would 

[66] 


The  World  Is  Getting  Better 

have  cared  whether  plants  suffer  pain  or  not — people 
wouldn't  have  given  it  a  second  thought,  you  know. 

And  now,  though  they  will  have  to  keep  on 
eating  them  until  something  else  is  invented,  they 
will  do  it  with  a  shudder  and  won't  enjoy  them  near 
so  much.  The  world  is  losing  much  of  its  cruelty 
and  thoughtlessness.  Upward!  Onward!  is  the 
slogan. 

Do  you  like  my  new  coat?  Unborn  lamb  skin, 
you  know.  Isn't  it  lovely ! 


WAR  AND  ART 

THIS  war  is  going-  to  have  a  tremendous  in 
fluence  on  Art — vitalize  it,  you  know,  and 
make  it  real,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
In  fact,  it's  doing  it  already.    We  took  up  the  war 
last  night — our  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Think 
ers,  you  know — in  quite  a  serious  way  and  consid 
ered  it  thoroughly  in  all  its  aspects  and  we  decided 
that  it  would  put  more  soul  into  Art. 

And  into  life,  too,  you  know. 

Already  you  can  see  on  every  hand  how  much 
serious  purpose  it  is  putting  into  lives  that  were 
merely  trivial  before.  Even  poor,  dear  Mamma — 
and  really,  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a  more  triv 
ial  person  than  Mamma ! — is  knitting  socks. 

She  is  going  to  send  them  to  the  Poles.  She 
wanted  to  send  them  to  the  Belgians. 

But  I  said  to  her,  "Positively,  Mamma,  you  are 
always  behind  the  times !  Don't  you  know  the  Bel 
gians  are  going  out  and  the  Poles  are  coming  in?" 

And,  you  know,  it's  been  months  since  really 
Smart  People  have  knit  for  the  Belgians.  The  Poles 
are  quite  the  thing  now. 

[68] 


War  and  Art 


It's  strange  how  great  movements  keep  going  on 
and  on  from  mountain  peak  to  mountain  peak  of 
usefulness  like  that,  isn't  it? — changing  their  direc 
tion  now  and  then  as  evolution  itself  does,  but 
always  progressing,  progressing ! 

That  is  one  wonderful  thing  about  evolution — it 
always  progresses. 

When  one  thinks  it  over,  one  grows  more  and 
more  conscious  that  the  human  race  owes  a  great 
deal  to  Evolution,  doesn't  one  ? 

What  could  we  have  done  without  it? 

It's  as  somebody  said  about  something  else  one 
time — if  we  hadn't  had  it,  you  know,  it  would  have 
been  necessary  to  invent  it,  though  for  the  life  of 
me,  I  can't  remember  who  it  was  or  what  he  said 
about  it.  Although  likely  it  was  Madame  de  Stael. 
We  took  her  up  once  and  it  developed  that  she  had 
said  a  most  surprising  number  of  things  like  that — 
things,  you  know,  that  would  be  quite  quotable  if 
you  could  only  remember  them. 

Isn't  memory  a  wonderful  faculty,  though ! 

I've  always  intended  to  go  in  for  developing  mine 
systematically  and  scientifically. 

But  I've  never  done  it  because  I  always  forget 
whether  I  should  order  the  book-shop  people  to 
send  home  a  work  on  numismatics  or  a  work  on 
mnemonics.  One  of  them  is  about  money,  you 
know,  and  the  other  is  about  memory.  And  once 

[69] 


Hermione 

when  I  was  shopping  and  thought  I  had  it  right  it 
turned  out — the  book  did,  when  I  got  it  home — to 
be  all  about  air  and  things.  Pneumatics,  you  know  1 
Wasn't  it  perfectly  ridiculous? 

But,  of  course,  one  learns  by  one's  mistakes. 

Have  you  seen  dear  Nijinsky? 

We  were  discussing  him  last  evening — our  little 
group,  you  know — and  decided  that  while  he  has 
more  Personality  than  Mordkin  he  has  less  Tem 
perament,  if  you  get  what  I  mean. 

One  of  the  girls  said  last  evening,  "Mordkin  is 
more  exotic,  but  Nijinsky  is  more  esoteric." 

And  another  said,  "One  of  them  shows  intellect 
obviously  mingled  with  spirit,  but  the  other  shows 
spirit  occultly  mingled  with  intellect." 

Fothergil  Finch  said,  "They  are  alike  in  their 
differences,  but  subtly  differentiated  in  their  like 
nesses,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

Fothy  has  a  simply  delightful  faculty  of  summing 
a  thing  up  in  a  sentence  like  that,  but  it  makes  him 
very  vain  if  you  show  you  think  so;  so  I  put  him 
in  his  place  and  closed  the  discussion  with  one  re 
mark: 

"It  is  all,"  I  said,  "it  is  all  a  question  of  Inter 
pretation." 

And,  quite  seriously,  when  you  come  to  think 
about  it,  it  usually  is,  isn't  it  ? 


A  SPIRITUAL  DIALOGUE 

Last  night  I  met  Hermione, 
And  eagerly  she  said  to  me: 
"Thoughts  from  the  ambient  everywhere 
Electrify  our  worldly  air." 

"My  soul,"  I  said,  "grabs  off  such  hints 
As  butter,  whether  pats  or  prints, 
Receives  and  holds  all  unaware 
Small  strands  of  drifting,  golden  hair. 
But  have  you  thought,  O  maiden  fair, 
O,  have  you  thought  profoundly  of 
The  psychic  consciousness  in  crows? 
Or  why  the  Malay  when  in  love 
Wears  rubber  earrings  on  his  toes?" 

The  lady  shook  her  lovely  head — 

'Twas  coiffed  divinely — and  she  said: 

"Have  you  reflected  on  the  part 

Primeval  instinct  plays  in  Art? 

It's  simply  wonderful  the  way 

Old  things  grow  new  from  day  to  day!" 


Hermione 


"That's  true,"  I  said,  "I  often  ape 
The  Ape  to  get  my  Art  in  shape — 
And  with  the  Simian  going  strong, 
Behold,  another  Rennysawng !" 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "across  the  verge 
Of  darkness,  from  the  Cosmic  Urge, 
The  Light  is  speeding  in  bright  waves, 
E'en  now  to  show  the  way  to  slaves!" 

"The  thought,"  I  said,  "is  cheerful— but 
These  Swamis  will  chew  betel-nut!" 

"Alas !"  she  said,  "alas !  too  true ! 
But  oh!  it's  wonderful  of  you 
To  sympathize  and  understand- 


(She  gestured  with  a  jeweled  hand) — 
"The  joy  of  being  understood!" 

"Our  talk,"  I  said,  "has  done  me  good.' 


WILL  THE  BEST  PEOPLE  RECEIVE  THE 
SUPERMAN  SOCIALLY? 

WE'VE  been  taking  up  Metabolism  lately — 
our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know — and    it's   wonderful;    just    simply 
wonderful! 

I  really  don't  know  how  I  got  along  for  so  many 
years  without  it — it  opens  up  such  new  vistas, 
doesn't  it? 

I  can  never  think  in  the  same  way  again  about 
even  the  most  trivial  things  since  I  have  learned 
all  about  Protoplasm  and — and — well,  all  these 
marvelous  scientific  things,  you  know. 

Isn't  Science  delightful! 

There's  the  Cosmos,  for  instance.  It  had  always 
been  there,  you  know.  But  nobody  knew  much 
about  it  until  Scientists  took  it  up  in  a  serious  way. 

And  now  I,  for  one,  feel  that  I  couldn't  do  with 
out  it! 

Although,  of  course,  one  feels  one's  responsibili 
ties  toward  it,  too,  and  that  is  apt  to  be  rather 
trying  at  times  unless  one  has  a  truly  earnest  nature 
and  is  prepared  to  make  sacrifices. 
173] 


Hermione 

If  the  Cosmos  is  to  be  improved,  what  is  there 
that  can  improve  it  except  Evolution? 

And  unless  we  who  are  serious  thinkers  give  Evo 
lution  a  mark  to  reach,  how  can  we  be  sure  that 
Evolution  will  Evolve  in  the  right  direction? 

I  have  worried  myself  half  to  death  at  times 
over  the  Superman! 

You  know  I  feel  personally  responsible,  to  a 
certain  extent,  about  what  he  will  be  like  when  he 
gets  here.  If  he  isn't  what  he  should  be,  you  know, 
it  will  be  the  fault  of  those  of  us  who  are  the 
leaders  in  thought  today — it  will  be  because  we 
haven't  started  him  right,  you  know. 

Mamma — poor  dear  Mamma  is  so  unadvanced, 
you  know! — has  an  idea  -  that  when  the  Superman 
does  get  here  he  won't  be  at  all  the  sort  of  person 
that  one  would  care  to  receive  socially. 

"Hermione,"  she  said  to  me  only  the  other  day, 
"no  Superman  shall  ever  come  into  my  house !" 

She  heard  some  of  my  friends,  you  know,  talk 
ing  about  the  Superman  and  Eugenics,  and  she  has 
an  idea  that  he  will  be  horribly  improper. 

"I  consider  that  the  Superman  would  be  a  dan 
gerous  influence  in  the  life  of  a  young  woman/' 
said  Mamma. 

"Mamma,"  I  told  her,  "you  are  frightfully  behind 
the  times!  There  isn't  a  doubt  in  the  world  that 
when  the  Superman  does  come  he  will  be  taken 

[74] 


The  Superman 

up  by  the  Best  People.  Anarchists  and  Socialists 
go  everywhere  now,  and  dress  just  like  other  peo 
ple,  and  you  can  hardly  tell  them,  and  it  will  be 
the  same  way  with  the  Superman." 

What  Mamma  lacks  is  contact.  Contact  with — 
with — well,  she  lacks  Contact,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean. 

So  many  of  the  elder  generation  do  lack  Contact, 
don't  you  think? 

Although,  of  course,  it  would  be  very  hard  to 
have  Contact  and  Background  at  the  same  time. 

And  if  one  must  choose  between  Contact  and 
Background,  the  choice  is  apt  to  be  puzzling  at 
times. 

Although,  of  course,  it  is  useless  to  reason  too 
much  on  things  like  that.  Intuition  often  succeeds 
where  reason  fails,  especially  if  one  is  at  all  Psychic. 

Well,  I  must  go.    I  must  hurry  to  my  costumer's. 

I'm  having  a  special  costume  made,  you  know. 
We've  been  taking  up  Spiritualism  again — our  little 
group,  you  know.  And  I'm  going  to  give  a  Spirit 
Fete,  and  of  course  it  will  take  a  great  deal  of 
dressing  and  arranging  and  decoration. 

Papa  says  it  will  be  a  Ghost  Dance,  but  he  is  so 
terribly  frivolous  and  irreverent  at  times. 

Don't  you  just  simply  loathe  frivolity? 


THE  PARASITE  WOMAN  MUST  GO! 

THE  Parasite  Woman  must  go! 
Our  Little   Group  of   Serious  Thinkers 
took  up  the  Parasite  Woman  last  night  in 
quite  a  thorough  way.   One  of  the  most  interesting 
women  you  ever  listened  to  gave  us  a  little  talk 
about  the  Parasite  Woman,  you  know. 

And  we  decided  that  the  Parasite  Woman  has 
nothing  to  Contribute  to  the  Next  Generation. 

Oh,  these  Parasite  Women !  It  just  simply  makes 
my  blood  boil  to  hear  about  them!  I  don't  know 
when  I  have  been  so  indignant! 

With  the  world  so  full  of  work  to  be  done  for 
the  Cause — for  all  the  Causes,  you  know — they 
just  sit  around  selfishly  at  home  all  wrapped  up 
in  their  own  families,  or  children,  if  they're  mar 
ried,  and  do  nothing  at  all  for  the  Evolution  of 
the  Ego  and  the  Development  of  the  Race,  and  the 
Conscious  Guidance  of  the  Next  Generation,  or  any 
thing  at  all  like  that. 

Thank  goodness  I  could  never  be  a  Parasite 
Woman ! 

And,  yet,  I  pity  them,  too. 
[76] 


The  Parasite  Woman  Must  Go/ 

I'm  thinking  quite  seriously  of  starting  a  little 
Mission  of  my  own  for  the  purpose  of  appealing 
to  and  reforming  the  Parasite  Women  among  my 
acquaintances. 

Of  course  it  will  take  organization,  and  that 
means  I  will  have  to  have  money  to  start  it  and 
keep  it  going. 

But  Papa  will  give  me  the  money  all  right.  That 
is  one  thing  about  poor,  dear  Papa — he  doesn't 
understand  the  new  movements  at  all,  but  he  will 
give  me  money.  And  he  never  asks  what  I  do 
with  it. 

Now  and  then,  of  course,  he  scolds  a  little — he 
told  me  the  other  day  I  cost  him  nearly  as  much 
as  a  war.  But  I  can  always  jolly  him,  you  know, 
when  he  gets  that  way.  Men  are  so  easily  managed 
and  flattered. 

I  suppose  my  Mission  will  take  quite  a  lot  of 
money,  too.  But  it  is  my  duty,  and  I  am  willing  to 
make  any  sacrifice — we  modern  thinkers  are  used 
to  making  sacrifices  for  our  Cause! 

And  it  is  worth  a  lot  of  sacrifice  to  make  the 
Parasite  Woman  over  into  an  Awakened  and  En 
lightened  Member  of  Society,  independent  of  the 
Man-Made  System  that  has  shackled  her  for  so 
long. 

What  is  nobler  than  Emancipation? 

Of  course,  I'll  have  to  have  a  Secretary.  And 
[77] 


Hermione 

to  get  one  especially  trained  in  organizing  the  Mis 
sion  will  cost  quite  a  bit,  probably. 

But  Papa  will  never  miss  it. 

And  I  think  I'll  have  to  have  a  man  for  a  Secre 
tary.  One  that  is  quite  presentable  socially,  you 
know.  For  the  Secretary  will  have  to  attend  to  a 
lot  of  the  details.  I  will  give  some  teas  and  enter 
tainments  and  things,  just  to  get  the  Parasite 
Women  I  know  interested. 

And  there's  nothing  like  the  right  sort  of  a  man 
to  get  women  to  cooperate  in  some  Cause  that  aims 
for  Woman's  Liberty. 

And  I  suppose,  really,  two  Secretaries  would  be 
better.  And  they  will  have  to  be  men  who  can 
dance  the  new  dances  well,  too.  That  counts  a 
lot  nowadays  in  getting  girls  to  come  to  places. 

I  feel  that  I  have  Found  my  Work !  One's  work 
lies  at  one's  hand,  if  one  could  but  see  it,  always. 
And  mine  is  to  Save  the  Parasite  Women  I  know 
from  Themselves  and  their  Frivolity. 

I  will  coax  the  first  cheque  out  of  Papa  this  very 
evening !  It  may  take  some  management  and  jolly 
ing,  but — well,  Papa  is  easy! 


WE'RE  taking  up  the  House  Beautiful — our 
Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know — for  we've  decided  that  Environ 
ment  has  more  effect  on  personality  than  Heredity. 

Interior  decoration  is  the  greatest  of  the  arts — 
don't  you  think? — because  it  furnishes  the  proper 
setting  for  the  spirit. 

The  loveliest  woman  gave  us  a  talk  on  interior 
decoration  the  other  night — she  wears  these  slinky, 
Greek  things,  you  know,  with  straw  sandals,  when 
the  weather  permits — and  I  engaged  her  to  do  the 
house  over. 

But  right  away  a  problem  presented  itself — 
whether  to  have  the  house  done  to  fit  my  personality 
or  whether  to  have  the  house  done  to  fit  the  thing 
I  want  my  personality  to  evolve  into,  and  trust  the 
environment  to  help  in  the  evolution. 

Modern  thought  complicates  life  immensely, 
doesn't  it? 

But  I  always  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  to  give  the 
best  in  myself  to  these  problems. 

Someone  must  help  Evolution  evolve.  Someone 
[791 


Hermione 

must  be  unselfish  enough  to  give  the  cosmos  new 
marks  to  come  up  to. 

And  who  but  the  serious  thinkers  are  willing  to 
sacrifice  themselves? 

Well,  we  finally  decided  to  do  every  room  in 
the  house  differently — each  one  to  fit  a  mood,  you 
know. 

There's  one  room  now  I  call  "Aspiration,"  where 
I  go  for  my  little  spiritual  examinations. 

And  the  next  room  beyond  that  is  "Resolve." 

And  then  there's  a  room  I  call  "Brotherly  Love," 
where  I  go  to  think  out  how  to  help  the  masses. 

For  of  course  I  haven't  lost  my  interest  in  so 
ciological  problems. 

In  fact  I'm  having  some  new  dresses  made — ' 
simple,  quiet  looking  things,  you  know — for  the 
express  purpose  of  visiting  the  very  poor  in  and 
asking  them  questions  about  themselves. 

Though  I  must  admit  that  since  helping  the  war 
sufferers  came  into  fashion  friendly  visiting  has 
rather  gone  out. 


MAMMA    IS    SO   MID-VICTORIAN 

WE'VE  been  taking  up  Hedonism  lately — 
our  Little  Group  of  Modern  Thinkers, 
you  know — and  it's  wonderful,  just  sim 
ply  wonderful! 

Though  Mamma — poor  dear  Mamma  is  so  hope 
lessly  old-fashioned; — has  entirely  the  wrong  idea 
about  it. 

"Hermione,"  she  said  to  me  the  other  evening, 
after  the  little  talk,  "what  did  the  lecturer  call 
himself?" 

"He's  a  Hedonist,"  I  said. 

"Indeed!"  she  said,  "and  what  sort  of  modern 
impropriety  is  Hedonism?  Is  it  something  about 
Sex,  or  is  it  something  about  Psychics?" 

I  simply  couldn't  speak. 

I  just  gave  her  a  look  and  walked  out  of  the 
room.  It  is  absolutely  useless  to  attempt  to  explain 
anything  to  Mamma. 

She  is  so  Mid-Victorian! 

And  Mid-Victorianism  has  quite  gone  out,  you 
know.  Really.  The  loveliest  man  gave  us  a  talk 
on  the  Mid-Victorian  recently,  and  when  he  was 
[81] 


Hermione 

done  there  wasn't  a  one  of  us  that  didn't  go  and 
hide  our  Tennysons  and  Ruskins. 

Although  I  always  will  like  "Come  into  the  Gar 
den,  Maud." 

But  he  did  it  with  such  humor,  you  know.  Isn't 
a  sense  of  humor  a  perfectly  wonderful  thing? 

A  sense  of  humor  is  a  sense  of  proportion,  you 
know — he  brought  that  out  so  cleverly,  the  anti- 
Mid-Victorian  man  did. 

Though  so  many  people  who  have  a  sense  of 
humor  are  so — so,  well,  so  queer  about  it,  if  you 
get  what  I  mean.  That  is,  if  you  know  they  have 
one,  of  course  you're  naturally  watching  for  them 
to  say  humorous  things ;  and  they're  forever  saying 
the  sort  of  things  that  puzzle  you,  because  you  have 
never  heard  those  things  before  in  just  that  way, 
and  if  you  do  laugh  they're  so  apt  to  act  as  if  you 
were  laughing  in  the  wrong  place ! 

And  one  doesn't  dare  not  to  laugh,  does  one? 
It's  really  quite  unfair  and  unkind  sometimes! 
Don't  you  think  so? 

We  took  up  a  volume  on  The  Analysis  of  Humor 
one  winter — our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers, 
you  know — and  read  it  completely  through,  and 
before  the  winter  was  over  it  got  so  there  wasn't 
a  one  of  us  that  dared  not  to  laugh  at  anything 
any  other  one  said  and — well,  it  got  rather  ghastly 
before  spring.  Because  even  if  someone  wanted  to 

[82] 


Mamma  Is  So  Mid-Victorian 

know  if  a  person  needed  an  umbrella  someone  else 
would  laugh. 

Well,  I  must  be  going  now.  I  have  a  committee 
meeting  at  three  this  afternoon.  We're  going  in 
for  this  one-day  Women's  Strike,  you  know — our 
little  group  is. 


YOKE  EASELEY  AND  HIS  NEW  ART 


F 


OR    my     acquaintance    with    Yoke    Ease- 
ley 

(Hermione's  reporter,  and  not  Hermione 
herself,  is  speaking  now.) 

For  my  acquaintance  with  Yoke  Easeley  and  his 
new  art,  I  am  indebted  to  Fothergil  Finch. 

Fothergil  is  a  kind  of  genius  hound.  He  scurries 
sleuthing  around  the  town  ever  on  the  scent  of 
something  queer  and  caviar.  He  is  well  trained  and 
never  kills  what  he  catches  himself;  he  takes  it  to 
Hermione;  and  after  Hermione  has  tired  of  it  I 
am  at  liberty  to  do  what  I  please  with  it. 

The  most  remarkable  thing  about  Yoke  Easeley 
at  a  casual  glance  is  his  Adam's  apple.  It  is  not 
only  the  largest  Adam's  apple  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
the  hardest  looking  one,  and  the  most  active  one, 
but  it  is  also  the  most  intelligent  looking  one.  Yoke 
Easeley's  face  expresses  very  little.  His  eyes  are 
small  and  dull  and  green.  His  mouth,  while  large, 
misses  significance.  His  nose,  indeed,  is  big;  but 
it  is  mild;  it  is  a  tame  nose;  one  feels  no  more 
character  in  it  than  in  a  false  nose.  His  chin 

[84] 


Yoke  Ease  ley  and  His  New  Art 

and  forehead  retreat  ingloriously  from  the  battle 
of  life. 

But  all  the  personality  which  his  eyes  should 
show,  all  the  force  which  should  dwell  in  his 
nose,  all  the  temperamental  qualities  that  should 
reveal  themselves  in  his  mouth  and  chin,  all  the 
genius  which  should  illumine  his  brow — these  dwell 
with  his  Adam's  apple.  The  man  has  run  entirely 
to  that  feature;  his  moods,  his  emotions,  his 
thoughts,  his  passions,  his  appetites,  his  beliefs,  his 
doubts,  his  hopes,  his  fears,  his  resolves,  his  de 
spairs,  his  defeats,  his  exaltations — all,  all  make 
themselves  known  subtly  in  the  eccentric  motions 
of  that  unusual  Adam's  apple. 

When  I  saw  him  first  in  action  I  did  not  at  once 
get  it.  He  stood  stiffly  erect  in  the  center  of  Her- 
mione's  drawing-room,  surrounded  by  the  serious 
thinkers,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  Adam's 
apple  thrust  forward,  and  gave  vent  to  a  series  of 
strange  noises.  Beside  him  stood  a  very  slender 
lady,  all  dressed  in  apple  green,  with  a  long  green 
wand  in  her  hand,  and  on  the  end  of  the  wand 
was  an  artificial  apple  blossom.  This  she  waved 
jerkily  in  front  of  Voke  Easeley's  eyes,  and  his 
Adam's  apple  moved  as  the  wand  moved,  and  from 
his  mouth  came  the  wild  sounds  in  response  to  it. 

Soon  I  realized  that  she  was  conducting  him  as 
if  he  were  an  orchestra. 

[851 


Hermione 

But  still  I  did  not  get  it.  For  it  was  not  words, 
it  was  nothing  so  articulate  as  speech,  that  Yoke 
Easeley  uttered.  Nor  was  it,  to  my  ear,  song.  And 
yet,  as  I  listened,  I  began  to  see  that  a  wild  rhythm 
pervaded  the  utterance;  the  Adam's  apple  leapt, 
danced,  swung  round,  twinkled,  bounded,  slid  and 
leapt  again  in  time  with  a  certain  rough  barbaric 
measure;  the  sounds  themselves  were  all  discords, 
but  discords  with  a  purpose ;  discords  that  took  each 
other  by  the  hand  and  kicked  and  stamped  their 
brutal  way  together  toward  some  objective  point. 

I  led  Fothergil  into  a  corner. 

"What  is  it?"  I  whispered.  It  is  always  well,  at 
one  of  Hermione's  soul  fights,  to  get  your  cue  be 
fore  the  conversation  officially  starts.  If  you  don't 
know  what  is  going  to  be  talked  about  before  the 
talk  starts  the  chances  are  that  you  never  will  know 
from  the  talk  itself. 

"A  New  Art!"  said  Fothergil.  And  then  he  led 
me  into  the  hall  and  explained. 

What  Gertrude  Stein  has  done  for  prose,  what 
the  wilder  vers  libre  bards  are  doing  for  poetry, 
what  the  cubists  and  futurists  are  doing  for  paint 
ing  and  sculpture,  that  Yoke  Easeley  is  doing  for 
vocal  music. 

"He  is  painting  sound  portraits  with  his  larynx 
now,"  said  Fothergil.  "And  the  beautiful  part  of 
it  is  that  he  is  absolutely  tone  deaf!  He  doesn't 

[86] 


Voke  Easeley  and  His  New  Art 

know  a  thing  about  music.  He  tried  for  years  to 
learn  and  couldn't.  The  only  way  he  knows  when 
you  strike  a  chord  on  the  piano  is  because  he  doesn't 
like  chords  near  as  well  as  he  does  discords.  He 
has  gone  right  back  to  the  dog,  the  wolf,  the  cave 
man,  the  tiger,  the  bear,  the  wind,  the  rock  slide, 
the  thunder  and  the  earthquake  for  his  language. 
He  interprets  life  in  the  terms  of  natural  sounds, 
which  are  discords  nearly  always ;  but  he  has  added 
brains  to  them  and  made  them  tell  all  the  moods  of 
the  human  soul!" 

"And  the  lady  in  green?" 

"That  is  his  wife — he  can  do  nothing  without 
her.  There  is  the  most  complete  psychic  accord  be 
tween  them.  It  is  beautiful!  Beautiful!" 

When  we  returned  the  lady  in  green  was  an 
nouncing  : 

"The  next  selection  is  a  Yoke  Easeley  impression 
of  the  Soul  of  Wagner  gazing  at  the  sunrise  from 
the  peak  of  the  Jungfrau." 

The  wand  waved;  the  Adam's  Apple  leapt,  and 
they  were  off.  What  followed  cannot  be  indicated 
typographically.  But  if  a  cat  were  a  sawmill,  and 
a  dog  were  a  gigantic  cart  full  of  tin  cans  bounc 
ing  through  a  stone-paved  street,  and  that  dog  and 
that  cat  hated  each  other  and  were  telling  each 
other  so,  it  would  sound  much  like  it. 

It  was  well  received.  Except  by  Ravenswood 
[87] 


Hermione 

Wimble.  He  always  has  to  have  his  little  critical 
fling. 

"The  peak  of  the  Jungfrau!"  he  grumbled. 
"Jtmgf rau  indeed !  It  was  Mont  Blanc !  It  was  very 
wonderfully  and  subtly  Mont  Blanc !  But  the  Jung 
frau — never !" 

"Hermione,"  I  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  the 
New  Art?" 

"It's  wonderful!"  she  breathed,  "just  simply 
wonderful!  So  esoteric,  and  yet  so  simple!  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  am  going  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Voke 
Easeley  about — one  improvement  I  am  going  to 
suggest.  His  ears,  you  know — don't  you  think  they 
are  too  large?  Or  too  red,  at  least,  for  their  size? 
They  catch  the  eye  too  much — they  take  away  from 
the  effect.  Before  he  sings  here  again  I  will  have 
Mrs.  Easeley  bob  them  off  a  little." 


A 


HERMIONE  ON  SUPERFICIALITY 
REN'T  you  just  crazy  about  the  Moral  Up- 


It's  coming  into  every  department  of  life 
now  and  one  just  simply  has  to  keep  up  with  it  in 
order  to  talk  intelligently  these  days. 

Not  that  one  can  talk  too  freely  about  it  in  mixed 
company,  you  know. 

There  are  getting  to  be  the  awfullest  lot  of  moral 
subjects  that  one  can't  talk  about  generally,  aren't 
there  ? 

Eugenics  and  sex  hygiene  and  all  these  plays  and 
books  with  a  moral  purpose,  you  know. 

Of  course  lots  of  people  do  talk  about  them  gen 
erally.  I  did  myself  for  quite  a  while.  And  then 
another  girl  and  I  got  some  books  and  studied  up 
what  the  things  we  had  been  talking  of  really  were 
and  it  shocked  us  horribly  ! 

Mamma  has  been  trying  to  get  me  to  give  up  the 
moral  uplift  entirely,  but  you've  just  simply  got  to 
talk  it  or  be  out  of  date. 

Of  course  the  whole  thing  depends  upon  whether 
you  are  a  serious  thinker  —  if  you're  sincere,  really 

[89] 


Hermione 

sincere,  you  can  take  up  anything  and  get  good  out 
of  it. 

The  loveliest  man  talked  to  us  last  night — to  our 
Little  Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers,  you  know. 

He  said  the  curse  of  the  age  and  the  country  was 
superficiality.  People  aren't  thorough,  you  know. 

I've  noticed  that  myself  and  I  agree  with  him. 
If  one  is  going  to  take  things  up  and  show  a  serious 
interest  in  them  one  must  not  limit  one's  self  to  a 
few  phases. 

One  must  be  broad.  One  must  be  thorough. 
One  must  cover  the  whole  field  of  thought. 

Our  little  group  this  winter  has  been  trying  to 
do  that.  So  far  we've  taken  up  Bergson,  socialism, 
psychology,  Rabindranath  Tagore,  the  meaning  of 
welfare  work,  culinary  science,  the  new  movements 
in  art — and  ever  so  many  more  things  I  can't  re 
member  now. 

For  the  rest  of  Lent  we're  going  to  take  up  the 
Cosmic  Consciousness. 

One  of  the  girls  thought  it  would  be  a  nice  sort 
of  thing  to  take  up  during  Lent — a  quiet  kind  of 
thing,  you  know;  not  like  feminism  or  chemistry. 

Have  you  seen  any  of  the  new  parti-colored  boots 
yet? 

Isn't  it  an  absurd  idea? 

And  yet,  you  know — if  it  made  for  Beauty! 

That  is  what  one  must  always  say  to  one's  self 
[90] 


Hermione  on  Superficiality 


— must  one  not?     I  mean:     Does  it  make   for 
Beauty? 

That's  the  reason  I  left  the  Suffrage  Party,  you 
know.  They  wanted  me  to  wear  one  of  those  hor 
rid  yellow  sashes.  And  my  complexion  can't  stand 
yellow.  So  I  quit  the  Suffrage  Party  right  there. 


ISIS,  THE  ASTROLOGIST 

WE'RE  taking  up  astrology  quite  seriously — * 
our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know — and  we've  hired  the  loveliest  lady 
astrologer  to  cast  our  horoscopes  and  give  us  a  talk 
and  get  us  started  right. 

She  wrote  a  letter  to  me — the  most  perfectly  fas 
cinating  letter — and  I  told  her  to  call,  and  we 
looked  her  over.  She  wore  a  beautiful  sky-blue 
gown  with  gold  stars  on  it — one  of  those  Greek 
ones,  you  know,  like  poor,  dear  Isadora  Duncan 
wore — and  a  gold  star  in  the  middle  of  her  fore 
head. 

"It  makes  her  look  like  a  unicorn,  that  star," 
Ravenswood  Wimble  said.  But  then  nobody  ever 
pleases  Ravenswood  Wimble  completely.  He  is 
so — if  you  get  me. 

"If  a  unicorn,  then  a  celestial  unicorn,"  Fothy 
Finch  said.  Fothy  is  too  dear  for  anything;  he  is 
always  hunting  for  the  good  in  people,  like  Apollo, 
or  Euripides — which  was  it  ? — when  they  gave  him 
the  basket  full  of  wheat  and  chaff,  and  he  separated 
them.  Or  maybe  it  was  Diogenes. 

[92] 


Isis,  the  Astrologist 


She  has  six  sisters,  and  they  are  all  astrologers, 
and  they  call  them  the  Pleiades. 

Although  Yoke  Easeley,  in  his  horrid  slangy  way, 
said:  "Pleiades?  She's  a  Bear!" 

Don't  you  just  utterly  loathe  slang? 

But  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  the  lovely  letter 
she  wrote — that's  what  attracted  me  to  her  at  the 
first. 

"Have  you  never  asked  yourself,"  it  began, 
"'Why  was  I  born?'" 

Fancy  knowing  that  about  one!  If  there  is  one 
question  I  have  asked  myself  thousands  and  thou 
sands  of  times  it  is,  "Why  was  I  born?" 

And  then  the  letter  went  on  to  talk  about  horo 
scopes  and  the  Inevitable. 

"We  may  not  overcome  the  Inevitable,"  it  said, 
"but  it  is  ours  to  see  that  the  Inevitable  does  not 
overcome  us." 

Oh,  the  Inevitable!    The  Inevitable! 

How  often  I  have  thought  of  the  Inevitable  with 
despair ! 

And  it  has  never  occurred  to  me  before  that  one 
could  take  it  and  use  it  as  one  pleased.  But  it  seems 
one  can  if  one  knows  about  it  beforehand.  It  is 
like  Destiny  that  way.  If  one  is  ignorant  of  one's 
Destiny,  it  comes  upon  one  with  a  surprise.  But 
if  one  knows  beforehand  what  one's  Destiny  is  to 
be,  one  can  make  oneself  the  master  of  it.  That  is 

[93] 


Hermione 

where  the  horoscope  comes  in  so  handy,  you  know. 

After  dipping  into  Astrology  I  will  never  again 
be  afraid  of  the  Inevitable. 

As  the  Letter  says :  "Every  woman  with  her 
horoscope  before  her,  and  her  Soul  back  of  her, 
should  be  able  to  solve  any  problem  and  meet  any 
situation  that  may  occur  in  her  life/' 

Ravenswood  Wimble  wanted  to  know,  when  he 
met  the  lady — did  I  tell  you  that  her  professional 
name  is  Isis? — what  would  happen  if  her  Soul  was 
before  her  and  her  horoscope  back  of  her.  But  Isis 
just  simply  froze  him  with  a  look. 

Don't  you  think  that  levity  is  horrid  in  the  midst 
of  vital  affairs  like  that? 

But  I  suppose  every  little  group  has  someone  in 
it  that  thinks  he  or  she  has  to  be  quippy  and  face 
tious  at  times. 

Not  but  what  I  have  a  sense  of  humor  myself. 

I  think  a  sense  of  humor  is  the  saving  grace,  if 
you  get  what  I  mean. 

But  no  one  should  try  to  use  it  unless  he  is  per 
fectly  sure  that  everyone  understands  he  is  being 
humorous. 

We  are  going  to  take  up  the  sense  of  humor — • 
our  Little  Group  of  Thinkers,  you  know — in  a  seri 
ous  way  soon. 

But  the  Swami  doesn't  like  Isis.  Poor,  dear 
Swami!  She  is  a  charlatan,  he  says.  And  she 

[94] 


I  sis,  the  Astrologist 


doesn't  like  him.  "My  dear,"  she  said  to  me,  "are 
you  sure  he  really  goes  into  the  Silences?  Or  does 
he  just  pretend  to?" 

Isn't  it  awful  about  geniuses  that  way — how  jeal 
ous  they  are  of  each  other?  Especially  psychics! 
We  had  two  mediums  the  same  evening  a  year  or 
two  ago  who  actually  quarreled  over  which  one  of 
them  a  certain  spirit  control  belonged  to. 


THE  SIMPLE  HOME  FESTIVALS 

DON'T  you  just  love  the  simple  old  festivals, 
like  Thanksgiving  Day  and  Christmas? 

That's  one  thing  that  Papa  and  Mamma 
and  I  agree  about.  And  this  year  we  had  a  very 
simple  sort  of  a  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Of  course,  it's  rather  a  bore  if  you  have  to  invite 
a  lot  of  relations. 

But  one  must  always  sacrifice  something  to  gain 
the  worth-while  things,  mustn't  one? 

And  what  is  more  worth  while  than  simplicity? 

Simplicity!  Simplicity!  Isn't  it  truly  wonder 
ful! 

Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  ask  my 
self:  "Have  I  been  simple  and  genuine  today?  Or 
have  I  failed?" 

Papa  always  has  two  maiden  aunts  to  Thanks 
giving  dinner.  Dear  old  souls,  I  suppose,  but 
frumps,  you  know. 

And  Fothergil  Finch  was  there,  too.  I  asked 
poor  dear  Fothy,  because  otherwise  he  would  have 
had  to  eat  in  some  restaurant. 

He  tried  to  be  agreeable  to  Papa's  aunts — of 
[96] 


The  Simple  Home  Festivals 


course,  I  suppose  they  are  my  great-aunts,  but  I 
never  felt  really  related  to  them — but  how  could  he 
know  how  terribly  unadvanced  they  are? 

Fothy's  only  real  interests  center  about  Art,  you 
know.  And  if  he  had  talked  of  Art  it  would  have 
been  better. 

But,  as  he  told  me  later,  he  thought  he  should 
try  to  meet  my  people  on  their  own  ground  and 
talk  of  something  practical. 

Something  with  a  direct  bearing  on  life,  you* 
know. 

So  he  asked  Aunt  Evelyn  what  she  thought  of 
Trial  Marriages. 

She  didn't  know  exactly  what  he  meant  at  first, 
but  Aunt  Fanny  whispered  something  to  her  and 
she  turned  white  and  said,  "Mercy!" 

Poor  dear  Fothy  saw  he  must  be  on  the  wrong 
track,  so  he  changed  the  subject  and  began  to  tell 
Aunt  Fanny  the  plot  of  a  new  problem  play.  One 
of  the  sex  ones,  you  know. 

"Heavens !"  said  Aunt  Fanny,  and  began  to  trem 
ble. 

And  they  drew  their  chairs  nearer  together  and 
each  one  took  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts  out  of  a 
little  black  bag,  and  they  sat  and  trembled  and 
smelled  their  salts  and  stared  at  him  perfectly  fas 
cinated. 

This  embarrassed  Fothy,  but  he  thought  his  mis- 
[971 


Hermione 

take  had  been  in  talking  about  anything  artistic, 
like  a  play,  so  he  changed  the  subject  again.  He 
told  me  afterward  that  he  felt  if  he  could  get  onto 
a  really  practical  subject  all  would  go  well. 

So  he  asked  Aunt  Evelyn  what  she  thought  about 
Genetics. 

"What  are  they?"  asked  Aunt  Evelyn,  her  teeth 
chattering. 

"Why,  Eugenics,"  said  Fothy.  And  then  he  had 
to  explain  all  about  Eugenics. 

They  sat  perfectly  still  and  stared  at  him,  and  he 
felt  sure  he  had  them  interested  at  last,  and  he 
talked  on  and  on  about  Eugenics  and  the  Future 
Race,  you  know,  and  that  led  him  back  to  Trial 
Marriages,  and  then  he  got  onto  the  Twilight  Sleep. 

And,  as  he  said  himself  afterward,  what  could 
be  more  practical? 

But,  you  know,  commonplace  people  never  appre 
ciate  the  efforts  that  serious  thinkers  make  for 
them,  and  Aunt  Evelyn  refused  to  come  to  the 
table  at  all  when  dinner  was  announced.  She  said 
she  had  lost  her  appetite  and  felt  faint. 

But  Aunt  Fanny  came.  She  asked  the  blessing. 
Papa  always  has  her  do  that  on  Thanksgiving  Day 
and  Christmas  and  New  Year's.  And  she  made  a 
regular  prayer  out  of  it — prayed  for  Fothy,  you 
know,  right  before  him ;  and  prayed  for  me  too.  It 
was  awful. 

[98] 


The  Simple  Home  Festivals 


And  afterward  poor  dear  Fothy  said  he  wished 
he  had  talked  about  Art. 

"It's  safer,"  I  said;  "then  people  can't  get 
offended,  for  nobody  knows  what  you  mean  at  all." 

"Oh,"  said  Fothy,  "nobody  does  ?"  And  he  went 
away  quite  melancholy  and  injured. 


CITRONELLA  AND  STEGOMYIA 

WE  were  talking  about  famous  love  affairs 
the  other  evening,  and  Fothergil  Finch 
said  he  was  thinking  of  writing  a  ballad 
about  Citronella  and  Stegomyia. 

And,  of  course,  everybody  pretended  they  knew 
who  Citronella  and  Stegomyia  were.  Mrs.  Yoke 
Easeley — you've  heard  about  Yoke  Easeley  and  his 
New  Art,  haven't  you  ? — Mrs.  Yoke  Easeley  said : 

"But  don't  you  think  those  old  Italian  love  affairs 
have  been  done  to  death?" 

"Italian?"  said  Fothy,  raising  his  eyebrows  at 
Mrs.  Yoke  Easeley. 

You  know,  really,  there  wasn't  a  one  of  them 
knew  who  Citronella  and  Stegomyia  were ;  but  they 
were  all  pretending,  and  they  saw  Mrs.  Yoke  Ease- 
ley  was  in  bad.  And  she  saw  it,  too,  and  tried  to 
save  herself. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "Citronella  and  Stegomyia 
weren't  Italian  lovers  themselves.  But  so  many  of 
the  old  Italian  poets  have  written  about  them  that 
I  always  think  of  them  as  glowing  stars  in  that 
wonderful,  wonderful  galaxy  of  Italian  romance!" 
[100] 


Citronella  and  Stegomyia 


Fothy  can  be  very  mean  when  he  wants  to.  So 
he  said: 

"I  don't  read  Italian,  Mrs.  Easeley.  I  have  been 
forced  to  get  all  my  information  about  Citronella 
and  Stegomyia  from  English  writers.  Maybe  you 
would  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  Italian  poet 
it  is  who  has  turned  out  the  most  recent  version  of 
Citronella  and  Stegomyia?" 

Mrs.  Yoke  Easeley  answered  without  a  moment's 
hesitation:  "Why,  D'Annunzio,  of  course." 

That  made  everybody  waver  again.  And  Aurelia 
Dart  said — she's  that  girl  with  the  beautiful  arms, 
you  know,  who  plays  the  harp  and  always  has  a 
man  or  two  to  carry  it  about  wherever  she  goes — 
somebody  else's  husband,  if  she  can  manage  it — • 
Aurelia  said: 

"D'Annunzio,  of  course!  Passages  of  it  have 
been  set  to  music." 

"Won't  you  play  some  of  it?"  asked  Fothy,  very 
politely. 

"It  has  never  been  arranged  for  the  harp,"  said 
Aurelia.  "But  if  Mrs.  Easeley  can  remember  some 
of  the  lines,  and  will  be  good  enough  to  repeat  them, 
I  will  improvise  for  it." 

That  put  it  up  to  Mrs.  Easeley  again,  you  know. 

She  hates  Aurelia,  and  Aurelia  knows  it.     Yoke 

Easeley  carried  Aurelia's  harp  around  almost  all 

last  winter.    And  the  only  way  Mrs.  Easeley  could 

[101]   ' 


Hermione 

break  Yoke  of  it  was  to  bring  their  little  girl  along 
— the  one  that  has  convulsions  so  easily,  you  know. 
And  then  when  Yoke  was  getting  Aurelia's  harp 
ready  for  her  the  little  girl  would  have  a  convul 
sion,  and  Mrs.  Easeley  would  turn  her  over  to  Yoke, 
and  Yoke  would  have  to  take  the  little  girl  home, 
and  Mrs.  Easeley  would  stay  and  say  what  a  family 
man  and  what  a  devoted  husband  Yoke  was,  for  an 
artist 

Well,  Mrs.  Easeley  wasn't  stumped  at  all.  She 
got  up  and  repeated  something.  I  took  up  Italian 
poetry  one  winter,  and  we  made  a  special  study  of 
D'Annunzio;  but  I  didn't  remember  what  Mrs. 
Easeley  recited.  But  Aurelia  harped  to  it.  Im 
provising  is  one  of  the  best  things  she  does. 

And  everybody  said  how  lovely  it  was  and  how 
much  soul  there  was  in  it,  and,  "Poor  Stegomyia! 
Poor  Citronella!" 

The  Swami  said  it  reminded  him  of  some  pas 
sages  in  Tagore  that  hadn't  been  translated  into 
English  yet. 

Yoke  Easeley  said :  "The  plaint  of  Citronella  is 
full  of  a  passion  of  dream  that  only  the  Italian 
poets  have  found  the  language  for." 

Fothy  winked  at  me  and  I  made  an  excuse  and 

slipped  into  the  library  and  looked  them  up — and, 

well,  would  you  believe  it! — they  weren't  lovers  at 

all !    And  I  might  have  known  it  from  the  first,  for 

[102] 


Citronella  and  Stegomyia 


I  always  use  citronella  for  mosquitoes  in  the  coun 
try. 

They  were  still  pretending  when  I  got  back,  all 
of  them,  and  Aurelia  was  saying:  "Citronella  dif 
fers  psychologically  from  Juliet — she  is  more  like 
poor,  dear  Francesca  in  her  feeling  of  the  cosmic 
inevitability  of  tragedy.  But  Stegomyia  had  a  strain 
of  Hamlet  in  him." 

"Yes,  a  strain  of  Hamlet,"  said  Yoke  Easeley. 
"A  strain  of  Hamlet  in  his  nature,  Aurelia — and 
more  than  a  strain  of  Tristram!" 

"It  is  a  thing  that  Maeterlinck  should  have  writ-, 
ten,  in  his  earlier  manner,"  said  Mrs.  Yoke  Easeley. 

"The  story  has  its  Irish  counterpart,  too,"  said 
Leila  Brown,  who  rather  specializes,  you  know,  on 
all  those  lovely  Lady  Gregory  things.  "I  have  al 
ways  wondered  why  Yeats  or  Synge  hasn't  used  it." 

"The  essential  story  is  older  than  Ireland,"  sai$ 
the  Swami.  "It  is  older  than  Buddha.  There  are 
three  versions  of  it  in  Sanskrit,  and  the  young  men 
sing  it  to  this  day  in  Benares." 

Affectation!  Affectation!  Oh,  how  I  abhor  af 
fectation  ! 

It  was  perfectly  horrid  of  Fothy  just  the  same. 

Anyone  might  have  been  fooled. 

I  might  have  been  myself,  if  I  were  not  too  in 
tellectually  honest,  and  Fothy  hadn't  tipped  me 
the  wink. 

[103] 


HERMIONE'S  SALON  OPENS 


Perchance  last  night  you  felt  the  world  careen, 
Leap  in  its  orbit  like  a  punished  pup 
Which  hath  a  hornet  on  his  burning  bean? 
Last  night,  last  night — historic  yestere'en! — 
Hermione's  Salon  was  opened  up! 


ii 


Without,  the  night  was  cold.    But  Thought,  within, 
Roared  through  the  rooms  as  red  and  hot  as  Sin. 
Without,  the  night  was  calm;  within,  the  surge 
And  snap  of  Thought  kept  up  a  crackling  din 
As  if  in  sport  the  well-known  Cosmic  Urge 
With  Psychic   Slapsticks  whacked  the   dome  and 

shin 

Of  Swami,  Serious  Thinker,  Ghost  and  Goat 
From  soup  to  nuts,  from  Nut  to  Super  Freak, 
From  clams  to  coffee,  all  the  Clans  were  there. 
The  groggy  Soul  Mate  groping  for  its  Twin, 
The  burbling  free  verse  Blear,  the  Hobo  Pote, 
[104] 


Hermione's  Salon  Opens 


Clairvoyant,  Cubist  Bug  and  Bur  lapped  Greek, 
Souse  Socialists  and  queens  with  bright  green  hair, 
Ginks   leading   barbered   Art   Dogs   trimmed   and 

sleek, 

The  Greenwich  Stable  Dwellers,  Mule  and  Mare, 
Pale  Anarchs,  tamed  and  wrapped  in  evening  duds, 
Philosophers  who  go  wherever  suds 
Flow  free,  musicians  hunting  after  eats, 
And  sandaled  dames  who  hang  from  either  ear 
Strange  lumps — "art  jools" — the  size  of  pickled 

beets, 

Writers  that  write  not,  hunting  Atmosphere, 
Painters  and  sculptors  that  ne'er  paint  nor  sculp, 
Reformers  taking  notes  on  Brainstorm  Slum, 
Cave  Men  in  Windsor  Ties,  all  gauche  and  glum, 
With  strong  iron  jaws  that  crush  their  food  to 

pulp, 

And  bright  Boy  Cynics  playing  paradox, 
And  th'  inevitable  She  that  knitteth  Belgian  socks — 
A  score  of  little  groups ! — all  bees  that  hum 
About  the  futile  blooms  of  Piffledom. 


in 


A  wan  Erotic  Rotter  told  me  that 
The  World  could  not  be  Saved  except  through  Sin; 
A  she  Eugenist,  sexless,  flabby,  fat, 
With  burst  veins  winding  through  unhealthy  skin, 
[105] 


Hermione 

With  loose,  uncertain  lips  preached  Purity; 

A  Preacher  blasphemed  just  to  show  he  dared; 

A  dame  praised  Unconventionality 

In  words  her  secretary  had  prepared; 

A  bare-legg'd  painter  garbed  in  leopard  hide 

Quarreled  with  a  Chinese  lyre  and  scared  the  dogs ; 

A  slithering  Dancer  slunk  from  side  to  side 

In  weird,  ungodly,  Oriental  togs ; 

A  pale,  anaemic,  frail  Divinity 

Confided  that  she  thought  the  great  Blond  Beast 

Himself  was  Art's  own  true  Affinity; 

An  Anarch  gloomed ;  "The  Mummy  at  the  Feast 

Gets  all  the  pleasure  from  the  festive  board!" 

I  know  not  what  they  meant;  I  only  wunk 

Within  myself,  and  praised  the  great  god  Bunk. 

A  Yogi  sought  the  Silences  and  snored. 


IV 


But  'twas  Hermione  that  Got  the  Hand ! 
Ah,  yes,  she  talked!    Of  Purpose,  and  of  Soul, 
And  how  Life's  parts  are  Equal  to  its  Whole. 
And  Thought — and  do  the  Masses  Understand  ? 
She  lightly  touched  on  Life  and  Love  and  Death, 
And  Cosmic  Consciousness,  and  on  Unrest, 
Substance  and  Shadow,  Solid  Things  and  Breath, 
The  New  Art  movements  her  sweet  voice  caressed, 
Philanthropy,  Genetics,  Social  Duty, 
[106] 


Hermlone's  Salon  Opens 


The  Mother-Teacher  claimed  a  passing  smile, 
And  she  made  clear  we  all  must  worship  Beauty 
And  Concentrate  on  Things  that  are  Worth  While. 
"Each  night,"  she  said,  "each  night  ere  I  retire 
Into  the  Depths  I  peer,  and  I  inquire, 
'Have  I  today  some  Worth-while  Summit  scaled? 
Or  have  I  failed  to  climb?    Oh,  have  I  failed? 
These  little  talks  between  the  Self  and  Soul — 
Oh,  don't  you  think  ? — still  help  us  toward  the  Goal ; 
They  help  us  shape  the  Universal  Laws 
In  sweet  accordance  with  our  glorious  Cause!" 
"Hermione,"  said  I,  "they  do!  they  do!" 
"Thank  you,"  said  she,  "I  knew  you'd  understand !" 
I  said  to  her,  the  while  I  pressed  her  hand, 
"All,  all,  my  interest  I  owe  to  you!" 

And  then  I  left,  and  following  my  feet 

Soon  found  that  they  had  led  me  to  the  street. 


And  there  I  found  a  burly  Garbage  Man 

Who  through  bleak  winter  nights  from  can  to  can 

Goes  on  his  ashy  way,  sans  rest  or  pause, 

Goes  on  his  way,  still  faithful  to  his  Cause. 

"Tell  me,"  said  I,  "if  now  across  the  verge 
Of  night  should  come  the  kindly  Cosmic  Urge, 
[107] 


Hermione 

Strong-armed  and  virile,  full  of  vim  and  yelp, 
And  offer  you  with  these  here  cans  to  help, 
Would  you  accept  the  Cosmic  Urge's  aid, 
Or  would  you  rise  up  free  and  unafraid 
And  say,   'My  restless  Personality 
Bids  me  return  a  negative  to  thee !' ' 

"Old  scout,"  says  he,  "I've  never  really  brought 
My  intellects  to  bear  on  that  there  thought ! 
I  gets  no  help,  I  asks  no  help  from  none — 
But  I  have  noticed,  bo,  that  one  by  one, 
And  soon  or  late,  and  gradual,  day  by  day, 
Most  things  in  life  eventual  comes  my  way! 
Into  the  Ashes  Can  the  whole  world  goes, 
Old  hats,  old  papers,  toys  and  styles  and  clo'es, 
Eventual  they  dump  'em  down  the  bay!" 


VI 


Symbolic  Garbage  Man !    Sans  rest  or  pause, 
In  steadfast  faith  work  for  thy  sacred  Cause! 
Some  time,  perhaps,  all  piles  of  twisted  bunk, 
All  half-baked  faddists,  heaps  of  mental  junk, 
Unto  the  waiting  Scow  we'll  cart  away 
Eventual  to  dump  'em  down  the  bay! 


THE  PERFUME  CONCERT 

THE  loveliest  man  gave  us  a  talk  the  other 
evening — our  Little  Group  of  Serious 
Thinkers,  you  know — on  the  Art  of  the 
Future. 

And  what  do  you  think  it  is  to  be  ?  You'd  never 
guess !  Never ! 

The  entertainment  of  the  future  will  be  a  Per 
fume  Concert! 

Every  scent,  if  you  get  what  I  mean,  corresponds 
to  some  color,  and  every  color  corresponds  to  some 
sound,  and  every  sound  corresponds  to  some  emo 
tion. 

And  the  truly  esthetic  person — the  one  who  is 
Sensitized,  if  you  get  what  I  mean — will  hear  a 
tone  on  the  violin,  and  see  a  color,  and  think  pas 
sionately  of  the  One  he  Loves,  all  at  the  same 
time,  just  through  smelling  a  Rose. 

Only,  of  course,  it  must  be  the  right  kind  of  a 
rose. 

Papa — poor  dear  Papa  is  so  coarse  and  crude 
sometimes  in  his  attempts  to  be  witty — Papa  says  it 
would  be  a  fine  idea  to  lead  the  man  who  talked  to 
[109] 


Hermione 

us  into  a  boiled  cabbage  foundry  and  then  watch 
him  die  of  the  noise.  Papa  is  not  Sensitized;  he 
doesn't  understand  that  the  esthete  really  would 
die — Papa  resists  the  vibrations  of  the  esthetic  en 
vironment  with  which  I  have  striven  to  surround 
him,  if  you  get  what  I  mean. 

Oh,  to  be  Sensitized !  To  be  Sensitized !  To  vi 
brate  like  a  reed  in  the  wind !  To  thrill  like  a  petal 
in  the  sun! 

I'm  having  a  study  of  my  aura  made.  You 
know,  one's  soul  gives  off  certain  colors,  and  if 
one's  individuality  is  to  be  in  tune  with  the  Cosmic 
All,  one  must  take  care  that  the  colors  about  one 
do  not  jar  with  one's  own  Psychic  Hue. 

And  after  one  has  found  one's  soul  color,  one  can 
find  the  scent  to  match  that  color,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean. 

I  am  going  to  have  the  house  re-decorated,  with 
a  sweet  subtle  blending  of  perfumes  in  every  room! 

I  have  always  been  good  at  matching  things, 
anyhow — I  perceive  affinities  at  a  glance.  Psychic 
people  do. 

When  I  was  quite  a  small  child  Mamma  always 
used  to  take  me  with  her  to  the  shops  if  there  were 
ribbons  or  anything  like  that  to  be  matched. 

I  just  loved  it,  even  as  a  baby!  And  I  think 
it  is  the  greatest  fun  yet. 

Often  I  go  through  half  a  dozen  shops,  no*  b*- 
[no] 


The  Perfume  Concert 


cause  I  want  to  buy  anything,  but  just  to  match 
colors,  you  know.  It  gives  me  a  thrill  that  nothing 
else  does. 

Some  of  us  are  like  that — some  of  us  truly  Sen 
sitized  Souls — we  function,  I  mean,  quite  without 
being  able  to  stop  it — I  hope  you  follow  me.  Isn't 
it  wonderful  to  be  in  touch  with  the  Universe  in 
that  way!  Not,  of  course,  that  the  shop  girls  who 
show  you  the  fabrics  and  things  are  always  under 
standing. 

The  working  classes  are  so  often  ungrateful  to 
us  advanced  thinkers.  Sometimes  I  am  almost  pro 
voked  to  the  point  of  giving  up  my  Social  Better 
ment  work  when  I  think  how  ungrateful  they  are. 
But  some  of  us,  in  every  age,  must  suffer  at  the 
hands  of  the  masses  for  the  sake  of  the  masses,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean. 


ON  BEING  OTHER-WORLDLY 

IT  is  not  enough  to  be  merely  unworldly. 
One  must  be  Other-Worldly  as  well,  if  you 
get  what  I  mean. 

For  what  does  all  our  Modern  Thought  amount 
to  if  it  does  not  minister  to  the  Beautiful  and  the 
Spiritual  ? 

Isn't  Materialism  simply  frightful? 

For  the  undisciplined  mind,  I  mean.  Of  course, 
the  right  sort  of  mind  will  get  good  even  out  of 
Materialism,  and  the  wrong  sort  will  get  harm  out 
of  it. 

Every  time  before  I  take  up  anything  new  I  ask 
myself,  "Is  it  Other-Worldly?  Or  is  it  not  Other- 
Worldly?" 

We  were  going  to  take  up  Malthusianism  and 
Mendelism — our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers, 
you  know — and  give  a  whole  evening  to  them,  but 
one  of  the  girls  said,  "Oh,  let's  not  take  them  up. 
They  sound  frightfully  chemical,  somehow!" 

I  said,  "The  question,  my  dear,  is  not  whether 
they  are  chemical  or  un-chemical.    The  question  is, 
Are  they  worldly?     Or  are  they  Other-Worldly?" 
[112] 


On  Being  Other-Worldly 


That  is  the  Touchstone.  One  can  apply  it  to 
everything,  simply  everything! 

Should  teachers  be  mothers,  for  instance — that 
question  came  up  for  discussion  the  other  evening. 
And  I  settled  the  whole  matter  at  once,  with  one 
question:  "Is  it  worldly?  Or  is  it  Other- Worldly 
for  Teachers  to  be  Mothers?  Or  is  it  merely  Un- 
Worldly?" 

Have  you  seen  the  latest  models  ?  Some  of  them 
are  wonderful,  simply  wonderful!  You  know  I 
always  dress  to  my  temperament — and  I'm  having 
the  loveliest  gown  made — the  skirt  is  ecru  lace,  you 
know ;  a  double  tiered  effect,  falling  from  a  straight 
bodice,  and  the  color  scheme  is  silver  and  blue. 


PARENTS,   AND  THEIR  INFLUENCE 

MAMMA  is  unadvanced  enough,  goodness 
knows ! 

But  poor,  dear  Papa! 

"Papa,"  I  said  to  him  the  other  day,  "all  con 
servatives  worth  listening  to  were  radicals  in  their 
youth."  The  loveliest  man  told  us  that  the  other 
night — our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know — and  it  struck  me  as  being  profound. 

And  isn't  profundity  fascinating? 

But  Papa  only  glowered  and  said,  "Umph!" 

Papa,  you  know,  is  an  obstructionist. 

"Papa,"  I  said  to  him,  "what  is  stubbornness  in 
you  has  become  will  power  in  me.  You  will  never 
dominate  me — never!  You  should  study  heredity; 
it's  wonderful,  simply  wonderful!" 

Papa  scowled  and  said  "Umph !" 

But  you  know,  Parents  are  Doomed. 

Our  little  group  listened  to  a  talk  the  other  eve 
ning  about  Parents.  Mothers,  particularly. 

"The  Menace  of  the  Mother,"  it  was  called.  I 
always  make  note  of  titles. 

This  man  said — he  was  a  regular  savant — I  wish 
[H4] 


Parents,  and  Their  Influence 


you  could  have  heard  him — my,  if  I  weren't  such 
an  advanced  thinker,  I  would  be  a  savant 

Anyhow,  he  said,  this  savant,  that  Mothers  held 
back  Civilization  through  Selfishness — they  teach 
the  Child,  you  know,  that  it  is — er,  well,  you  know, 
they  lose  sight  of  Ulterior  Ethics  and  Race  Mo 
rality  while  inculcating  Individual  Self-Improve 
ment. 

It's  frightful  to  think  about  it,  isn't  it?  Simply 
frightful! 

Then  and  there  I  resolved  that  if  I  were  ever  a 
Mother  I  would  turn  over  the  up-bringing  of  my 
children  to  experts  and  savants  and  specialists  like 
that. 

"Papa,"  I  said,  "you  allowed  poor,  dear  Mamma 
to  make  me  selfish — you  know  you  did!  What 
have  you  to  say  for  yourself  ?  What  right  had  you 
to  make  me  a  Self-indulgent  Individualist?" 

And,  you  know,  I  have  struggled  and  struggled 
to  get  rid  of  the  selfishness  my  parents  trained  into 
me.  How  I  strive  for  Harmony  and  Humility! 
Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  say  to  my 
self  :  "Have  I  been  humble  today?  Truly  humble? 
Or  have  I  failed?" 

Children  are  not  nearly  simple  enough  these  days. 

Oh,  for  more  Simplicity!  That  is  what  we  all 
need. 

Though  I  will   say  this   for  Mamma — that   it 


Hermione 

would  have  been  hard  to  train  Simplicity  into  me 
even  if  she  had  known  how. 

I  had  such  a  high-strung,  sensitive,  nervous  or 
ganism  as  a  child,  you  know. 

At  a  very  early  age  my  temperament  began  to 
show. 

And  one  cannot  hide  one's  temperament. 

Especially  if  one  is  at  all  psychic,  and  I  am, 
very. 

But  if  I  ever  have  Children — well,  I  will  take  no 
chances  with  them. 

To  begin  with,  I  will  Select  their  Father. 

Mamma  said,  when  I  told  her  that :  "Hermione, 
you  are  horrid!" 

Poor  dear  Mamma !  She's  so  stupid !  "Mamma," 
I  said  to  her,  "of  course  I  don't  mean  free  love. 
I'm  not  that  advanced,  I  hope !  Though  some  very 
Nice  People  have  written  of  it — it's  quite  respect 
able,  as  a  theory.  But  you're  hopelessly  old- 
fashioned.  I  will  select  the  Parent  of  my  Off 
spring;  you  were  selected." 

Mamma  only  groaned  and  said :  "Anything  but 
a  Cave-man,  Hermione." 

But  I  am  not  sure.  It  comes  back  to  me  again 
and  again  how  Primitive  I  am  in  some  ways. 

And  to  wander  barefoot  in  the  dew ! 

Not  really  quite  barefoot,  of  course — but  with 
some  of  the  new  sandals  on. 
[116] 


FOTHERGIL   FINCH   TELLS    OF   HIS    RE 
VOLT  AGAINST  ORGANIZED  SOCIETY 

BERTIE  GRIGGS— you  know  Ethelbert 
Griggs,  don't  you?  He  does  the  text  for 
the  Paris  fashions  for  a  woman's  magazine, 
and  on  the  side  he  writes  the  most  impassioned 
Verse.  All  about  Serpents,  and  Women,  and  Lillith 
and  Phryne,  you  know. 

Bertie  said  to  me  only  the  other  day,  "Fothy,  you 
are  too  Radical.  It  will  keep  you  down  in  the 
world." 

"Bertie,"  I  said,  "I  know  I  am,  but  can  I  help 
it  ?  I  spurn  the  world !  A  truly  virile  poet  must." 

"Some  day,  Fothy,"  he  said,  "you  will  come  into 
contact  with  the  law." 

I  only  laughed.  Bitterly,  I  suppose,  for  Bertie 
looked  at  me  quite  shocked. 

"Bertie,"  I  said,  "I  expect  Persecution.  I  wel 
come  it.  All  great  souls  do.  I  look  for  it.  On 
one  pretext  or  another,  I  will  be  flung  into  prison 
when  my  next  volume,  'Clamor,  Cries  and  Curses' 
comes  out." 

And  I  will,  too,  if  I  ever  find  a  publisher  who 


Hermione 

dares  to  bring  it  out.     But  they  are  all  too  cow 
ardly! 

"Fothy,"  he  said,  "you  Revolutionists  are  always 
talking — but  what  do  you  ever  do?" 

I  arose  with  dignity.  "Bertie,"  I  said,  "I  am 
ready  to  suffer  for  the  Cause."  I  turned  and  left 
him.  I  must  have  been  pale  with  resolve,  for  he 
ran  after  me  and  caught  me  by  the  wrist.  But  I 
shook  him  off. 

I  was  in  a  desperate  mood. 

"Curses  upon  all  their  Conventions !"  I  said,  as  I 
turned  up  the  street  toward  Central  Park.  "Curses 
upon  all  organized  society!" 

I  stopped  in  front  of  Columbus's  statue,  at  Co 
lumbus  Circle. 

"Fool,"  I  muttered  bitterly,  "to  discover  a  new 
world!" 

I  shook  my  fist  at  the  statue  and  went  on. 

I  wandered  over  to  the  place  where  they  keep 
the  animals,  and  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the 
monkey  cages. 

Dear,  unconventional  little  beasts !  They  always 
charm  my  blacker  moods  away  from  me !  So  free, 
so  untrammeled,  so  primitive! 

I  smiled  at  a  monkey.  He  smiled  at  me.  I  held 
up  a  peanut.  He  reached  out  his  hand  for  it. 

I  was  about  to  fling  it  to  him  when  I  saw  a  sign 
that  read: 

[118] 


Fothergil  Finch's  Revolt 


"Visitors  are  warned  not  to  feed  the  animals 
under  the  penalty  of  the  law." 

Always  their  laws!  Always  their  restrictions! 
Always  their  damnable  shackles!  Always  this  de 
nial  of  the  rights  of  the  individual! 

For  a  moment  I  stood  there  with  the  peanut  in 
my  hand  just  simply  too  angry  for  anything ! 

And  then  I  cried  out,  quite  loudly :  "Curses  upon 
organized  society!  I  will  break  its  laws!  I  will 
feed  the  animals!" 

Always  in  times  of  great  crisis  I  see  myself  quite 
plainly  as  if  I  were  some  other  person ;  poets  often 
do,  you  know ;  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
pose  of  Ajax  defying  the  lightning. 

"I  will  break  the  law!"  I  cried.     "So  there!" 

And  with  that  I  flung  the  peanut  right  into  the 
cage  with  all  my  might,  and  ran  away,  laughing 
mockingly  as  I  ran. 

I  felt  that  I  had  crossed  the  Rubicon,  and  that 
night  I  sat  down  and  wrote  r.iy  revolutionary  poem, 
"The  Defiance." 

What  the  Cause  needs  is  men  with  Vision  to  see 
and  Courage  to  perform!  This  is  the  age  of  Vi 
rility! 


THE  EXOTIC  AND  THE  UNEMPLOYED 

WE'VE  been  taking  up  the  Exotic  this  week 
— in  poetry  and  painting,  you  know,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing — and  its  influence 
on  our  civilization. 

Really,  it's  wonderful — simply  wonderful!  Quite 
different  from  the  Erotic,  you  know,  and  from  the 
Esoteric,  too — though  they're  all  mixed  up  with  it 
sometimes. 

Odd,  isn't  it,  how  all  these  new  movements  seem 
to  be  connected  with  one  another? 

One  of  the  chief  differences  between  the  Exotic  in 
art  and  other  things — such  as  the  Esoteric,  for  in 
stance — is  that  nearly  everything  Exotic  seems  to 
have  crept  into  our  art  from  abroad. 

Don't  you  think  some  of  those  foreign  ideas  are 
apt  to  be — well,  dangerous?  That  is,  to  the  un 
trained  mind? 

You  can  carry  them  too  far,  you  know — and  if 
you  do  they  work  into  your  subconsciousness. 

One  of  the  girls — she  belongs  to  the  same  Little 
Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers  that  I  do — has  been  so 
taken  with  the  Exotic  that  she  wears  orchids  all  the 
[120] 


The  Exotic  and  the  Unemployed 

time  and  just  simply  craves  Chinese  food.  "My 
love,"  she  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  "I  feel  that  I 
must  have  chop  suey  or  I'll  die!"  The  Exotic  has 
worked  into  her  subliminal  being,  you  know. 

She  has  an  intense  and  passionate  nature,  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  her 
if  it  were  not  for  the  spiritual  discipline  she  gets 
out  of  modern  thought. 

Next  week  we're  taking  up  Syndicalism — it's 
frightfully  interesting,  they  say,  and  awfully  ad 
vanced. 

I  suppose  it's  a  new  kind  of  philosophy  or  social 
ism,  or  maybe  anarchy — or  something  like  that. 
Most  of  these  new  things  that  come  along  nowadays 
are  something  like  that,  aren't  they? 

I'm  sure  the  world  owes  a  debt  to  its  advanced 
thinkers  which  it  can  never  repay  for  always  keep 
ing  abreast  of  topics  like  that. 

Not  that  I've  lost  my  interest  in  any  of  the  older 
forms  of  sociology,  you  know,  just  because  I  am 
keeping  up  with  the  newer  phases  of  it. 

Only  yesterday  I  rode  about  town  in  the  car  and 
had  the  chauffeur  stop  a  while  every  place  where 
they  were  shoveling  snow. 

The  nicest  man  was  with  me — he  is  connected 
with  a  settlement,  and  has  given  his  life  to  sociology 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

"Just  think,"  I  said  to  him,  "how  much  real  prac- 
[121] 


Hermione 

tical  sociology  we  have  right  here  before  us — all 
these  men  shoveling  snow — and  how  little  they  real 
ize,  most  of  them,  that  their  work  is  taking  them 
into  sociology  at  all." 

He  didn't  say  anything,  but  he  seemed  impressed. 

And  I'm  sure  the  unemployed  should  be  grateful 
to  the  serious  thinkers  for  the  careful  study  we 
give  them.  Don't  you  think  so? 


SOULS  AND  TOES 

I  went  to  a  Soul  Fight  at  Hermione's 

And  nothing  normal  can  describe  it  ... 

It  was  beyond   rhyme,   reason,   rum,   rhubarb  or 

rhythm  .  .  . 

Therefore,  Vers  Libre  Muse,  help  me! 
Imagist  outcast  with  the  bleary  eyes, 
My  Psychic  Pup,  my  poly  rhythmic  hound,  lift  up 

your  voice  and  help  me  howl ! 
Tenth  Muse,  doggerel  muse,  slink  hither,  brute, 
And   lick  your  master's   hand  .  .  .  I've  need   of 

thee  .  .  . 
Come  catercornered  on  three  legs  with  doubtful  tail 

and  eager  eyes  .  .  . 

Tomorrow  I  may  bash  you  in  the  ribald  ribs  again 
And  publicly  disown  you; 
But  oh !  today  I've  need  of  thee  .  .  . 
Winged  mongrel,  mutt  divine,  come  here  and  help 

me  bay  the  piebald  moon! 

It  was  a  Soul  Fight  at  Hermione's  .  .  . 
A  fat  Terpsichore  with  polished  toes  ...  a  bare 
foot  she  Soul 

[123] 


Hermione 

With  ten  Achaian  toes  .  .  .  and  each  toe  had  a  sep 
arate  Soul,  she  said  .  .  . 

Was  there  .  .  .  there  with  both  feet  .  .  .  both 
Grecian  feet  .  .  . 

Was  there  .  .  .  not  only  there,  but  IT. 

She  sat  upon  a  couch  and  lectured  .  .  .  not  with 
words, 

But  with  her  toes,  her  eloquent,  her  temperamental 
toes  .  .  . 

Her  toes  that  had  trod  (so  she  said)  the  paths  of 
beauty 

Since  Hector  was  a  pup  at  Troy  .  .  . 

She  sat  upon  a  couch  .  .  .  bards,  swamis  and  Her- 
miones, 

Gilt  souls  and  purple,  melomaniacs,  yellow  souls 
and  blue, 

Souse  socialists  and  other  cognac-scented  cogno 
scenti, 

Post-cubist  chicles  that  would  ne'er  jell  into 
gum  .  .  . 

All,  all  the  little  groups  from  all  the  brainstorm 
slums  .  .  . 

Why  specify?  .  .  .  we  know  our  little  groups! 
.  .  .  were  there  .  .  . 

Were  there  to  worship  at  those  feet  ...  to  vi 
brate  and   change   color   with   the  moods   of 
those  unusual  feet.  .  .  . 
[124] 


Souls  and  Toes 


"This    toe,"    she    said,    "is    Beauty  .  .  .  this    is 

Art  ... 

This  toe  is  Italy,  and  this  is  Greece."  .  .  . 
A  poet,  quite  beside  himself  with  inspiration, 
Suddenly  arose  and  cried: 

"This  little  pig  went  to  market, 

This  little  pig  stayed  at  home — 
This  little  pig  was  Greece, 
This  little  pig  was  Rome!" 

But  they  chilled  him  ...  he  went  Into  the  Si 
lences  .  .  . 

And  Terpsichore  resumed : 

"My  ten  toes  are:  Beauty,  Art,  Italy,  Greece, 
Life,  Music,  Psyche,  Color,  Motion,  Liberty! 

Put  yourself  into  a  receptive  attitude  now,  and 
Beauty  will  speak  to  you!" 

And  while  a  satellite  ran  rosy  fingers  down  a  lute, 
she  moved  the  toe  named  Beauty  to  and 
fro  ... 

A   hush   fell   on  the   assembled  nuts,  as   Beauty 

moved  .  .  . 

As  Beauty  spoke  to  them  .  .  . 
"I  see,"  murmured  Hermione  to  Fothergil  Finch, 

"I  see, 
As  that  toe  moves  ...  the  Isles  of  Greece  .  .  . 

and  Aphrodite  rising 

[125] 


Hermione 

From  the  Acropolis."  .  .  .  "You  mean,"  said  Foth- 

ergil,  "from  the  ^gean!"  .  .  . 
"It  is  all  one,"  said  Hermione,  "the  point  is  that 

I  see  her  rising!" 

Then  Color  spoke  to  them  .  »  . 

"As  that  toe  moves,"  said  Ravenswood  Wimble,  "I 
see  the  heavens 

Turned  into  one  vast  kaleidoscope  ...  all  the  stars 
and  moons 

Dance  through  my  soul  like  flakes  of  colored  glass !" 

Then  waved  the  toe  called  Life,  and  as  with  one 
accord  each  of  that  company 

Leapt  gasping  to  his  or  her  feet,  as  the  case  might 
be, 

And  cried:  "I  feel!  I  feel!  I  feel!  I  feel  the  Cos 
mic  Urge!" 

Then  moved  the  toe  called  Italy, 

And    Fothergil    Finch    remarked:      "Roses  .  .  . 

roses  .  .  .  roses  .  .  . 
Onions  and  roses  .  .  .  roses  are  onions,  and  onions 

are  beautiful  .  .  . 
Doves  and  pigeons  .  .  .  pigeons  .  .  .  pigeons  are 

pigs  .  .  . 

And  pigs  are  beautiful"  .  .  . 
And  then  the  serious  thinkers  cried  as  one: 
"Ah!  Pigs  are  Beautiful!" 
[126] 


Souls  and  Toes 


"Ah,  Italy;  oh,  Italy!"  cried  Fothy  Finch, 
"Oh,    never    cease    to    move  .  .  .  Italy  .  .  .  gar 
lic  ...  Venice  .  .  . 
Oh,  bind  my  brows  with  garlic,  lovely  land,  and 

turn  me  loose!" 

And  as  the  toe  called  Italy  still  moved 
The  little  groups  made  it  into  a  chant,  and  sang : 
"Oh,  bind  my  brows  with  garlic,  love,  and  turn  me 

loose!" 

*     *     * 

"Hermione,"  I  asked  her  afterward, 

"Did  you  really  see  and  feel  anything  when  those 

educated  toes  wiggled?" 

"How  can  you  ask?"  she  said,  very  up-stagey. 
"Hermione,"  I  said,  "we  are  old  enough  friends  by 

this  time,   so  we  can  deal   frankly  with  one 

another.    Tell  me  on  the  square  .  .  .  did  you 

get  it?" 
"You  are  blaspheming  at  the  shrine  of  Art!"  she 

said. 

"Hermione!    You  are  dodging !" 
"Did  you  notice,"  she  said  irrelevantly,  "the  nail 

polish  she  was  using? 
"It's  quite  the  latest  thing!    For  finger  nails,  too, 

you  know.    That  delicate  rose  pink,  with  just 

the  touch  of  creaminess  in  it !    It's  the  creamy 

tint  that's  new,  you  know.    Isn't  it  just  simply 

wonderful !" 

[127] 


KULTUR,    AND    THINGS 

DO  you  know,  Kultur  isn't  the  same  thing  at 
all  as  culture  .  .  .  fancy! 

When  we  took  it  up — Kultur,  I  mean — 
yes,  we  took  it  up  in  quite  a  serious  way  the  other 
evening — our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you 
know — and  threshed  it  out  thoroughly — we  hadn't 
the  slightest  idea  that  it  would  lead  us  straight  to 
Nietzsche  and — and,  well,  all  those  people  like  that, 
if  you  get  what  I  mean.  Though,  of  course,  as  the 
man  who  spoke  to  us — he  was  the  loveliest  person ! 
— spoke  in  German,  we  may  have  missed  some  of 
the  finer  shades. 

Oh,  yes,  I  had  German  in  high  school  .  .  .  real 
ly,  I  was  quite  proficient  .  .  .  although,  of  course, 
it's  such  a  guttural  kind  of  language — don't  you 
think? — that  one  wonders  how  they  ever  sing  it. 
And  then,  the  verbs!  .  .  .  but  I  had  Latin  verbs 
about  the  same  time,  you  know  .  .  .  and  really, 
isn't  it  surprising  how  some  of  those  foreign  lan 
guages  seem  to  run  to  verbs,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean? 

It  seems  it  was  the  Germans  who  invented  the 
[128] 


Kultur,  and  Things 


Superman  .  .  .  and  I  suppose  we  must  be  grateful 
to  them  for  that,  no  matter  what  they  may  have 
done  with  him  after  they  invented  him.  .  .  . 

I  used  to  be  quite  taken  with  the  Superman,  you 
know.  .  .  .  Really,  I  didn't  recognize  how  dan 
gerous  he  might  become.  .  .  . 

I  didn't  know  he  was  German  at  all  when  we 
took  him  up.  ... 

Have  you  read  anything  about  the  Blond  Beast? 

I  felt  rather  attracted  toward  him  for  a  long 
time  myself  .  .  .  until  lately.  .  .  .  But  the  attrac 
tion  passed.  .  .  .  I'm  not  brunette,  you  know,  at 
all.  .  .  .  Likely  that's  why  I  lost  interest  in 
him.  .  .  . 

Aren't  affinities  between  people  of  different  com 
plexion  simply  wonderful! 

It  makes  one  wonder  if  the  Eugenists  can  be  right 
after  all ! 

Fothergil  Finch  says  that's  where  the  Eugenists 
fall  down.  .  .  .  He  says  they  don't  take  account 
of  Affinities  at  all. 

Sometimes  one  finds  it  very  puzzling — doesn't 
one  ? — the  way  these  modern  causes  and  movements 
seem  to  contradict  one  another! 

But  if  one  is  in  tune  with  the  Cosmic  All  these 
little  inconsistencies  don't  matter. 

The  Cosmic  All!  ...  what  would  we  do  with 
out  it? 

[129] 


Hermione 

How  do  you  suppose  people  ever  got  along  a 
generation  or  two  ago  before  the  Cosmos  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  was  discovered? 

I've  often  thought  of  it  ...  and  of  what  life 
must  have  been  like  in  those  days!  As  Emerson 
.  .  .  or  -was  it  Emerson?  .  .  .  says  in  one  of  his 
poems:  "Better  a  year  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 
Cathay!" 

That's  what  Fothy  Finch  says  he  always  feels 
about  Brooklyn  .  .  .  though  I  will  say  this  for 
Brooklyn — the  first  girl  I  saw  with  courage  enough 
to  wear  one  of  those  ankle  watches  on  the  street 
lived  in  Brooklyn. 

But  don't  you  think  Brooklyn  people  are  rather 
like  that  ...  go  to  the  latest  things  in  dress,  you 
know,  in  an  extreme  sort  of  way,  so  that  people 
won't  suspect  they  live  in  Brooklyn? 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   CHRISTMAS 

ISN'T  the  Christmas  festival  just  simply  won 
derful? 

For  days  beforehand  I  feel  so  uplifted — so, 
well,  other-worldly — if  you  know  what  I  mean. 

Isn't  it  just  dreadful  that  any  material  considera 
tions  have  to  spoil  such  a  sacred  time? 

It  does  seem  to  me  that  somehow  we  might  free 
ourselves  of  worldliness  and  greediness  and  just 
rise  to  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  day.  If  only 
we  could! 

And  what  a  blessing  it  would  be  to  the  poor,  tired 
shop  girls  if  we  could! 

Though,  of  course,  they,  the  shop  girls,  I  mean, 
must  be  upheld  even  in  their  weariest  moments  by 
the  thought  that  they  are  helping  on  the  beautiful 
impulse  of  giving! 

When  they  reflect  that  every  article  ihey  sell  is 
to  be  a  gift  from  one  thoughtful  and  loving  heart 
to  another  they  must  forget  the  mere  fatigue  of  the 
flesh  and  just  feel  the  stimulus,  the  inspiration,  the 
vibration ! 

There  are  gifts,  I  admit,  that  haven't  the  divine 


Hermione 

spark  of  love  to  hallow  them,  but  after  all  there 
aren't  so  many  of  that  sort.  Love  one  another  is 
the  spirit  of  Christmas — and  it  prevails,  whatever 
the  skeptics  may  say  to  the  contrary.  And  though 
it's  a  pity  there  has  to  be  a  material  side  to 
Christmas  at  all,  it's  so  comforting,  so  ennobling 
to  realize  that  back  of  the  material  gifts  is  Brotherly 
Love. 

It  quite  reassures  one  about  the  state  of  the  world ; 
it  certainly  isn't  getting  worse  with  Brotherly  Love 
and  the  Spirit  of  Giving  animating  everybody. 

Of  course,  Christmas  giving  is  a  problem  some 
times.  It  is  so  embarrassing  when  somebody  you'd 
forgotten  entirely  sends  you  a  present. 

I  always  buy  several  extra  things  just  for  that 
emergency.  Then,  when  an  unexpected  gift  ar 
rives,  I  can  rush  off  a  return  gift  so  promptly  that 
nobody'd  ever  dream  I  hadn't  meant  to  send  it  all 
along. 

And  I  always  buy  things  I'd  like  to  have  myself, 
so  that  if  they  aren't  needed  for  unexpected  people 
they're  still  not  wasted. 

With  all  my  spirituality,  I  have  a  practical  side, 
you  see. 

All  well  balanced  natures  have  both  the  spiritual 
and  the  practical  side.  It's  so  essential,  nowadays, 
to  be  well  balanced,  and  it's  a  great  relief  to  me  to 
find  I  can  be  practical.  It  saves  me  a  lot  of  trouble, 


The  Spirit  of  Christmas 


too,  especially  about  this  problem  of  Christmas 
giving. 

I  know  the  value  of  material  things,  for  instance. 
And  I  never  waste  money  giving  moie  expensive 
presents  to  my  friends  than  I  receive  from  them. 
That's  one  of  the  advantages  of  having  a  well  bal 
anced  nature,  a  practical  side. 

And,  anyway,  the  value  of  a  gift  is  not  in  the 
cost  of  it.  Quite  cheap  things,  when  they  represent 
true  thought  and  affection,  are  above  rubies. 

Mamma  and  Papa  are  going  to  get  me  a  pearl 
necklace,  just  to  circle  the  throat,  but  beautifully 
matched  pearls.  I  wouldn't  care  for  an  ostenta 
tiously  long  string  of  pearls  anyway. 

Poor,  dear  Papa  says  he  really  can't  afford  it — 
with  times  so  hard,  and  those  dear,  pathetic  Euro 
peans  on  everybody's  hands,  you  know — but  Mam 
ma  made  him  understand  how  necessary  beauty  is 
to  me,  and  he  finally  gave  in. 

Isn't  it  just  wonderful  how  love  rules  us  all  at 
Christmas  time? 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA  AND  FOTHERGIL 
FINCH 

(Hermione's  Boswell  Loquitur} 

HERMIONE'S  mother,  who  has  figured  so 
often  as  "Poor  dear  Mamma"  in  these 
pages,  has  come  out  definitely  for  Suffrage. 
Someone  told  her  that  there  was  an  alliance  between 
the  liquor  interests  and  the  anti-Suffragists  and  she 
believed  it,  and  it  shocked  her. 

Since  the  activities  of  her  daughter  have  brought 
her  into  contact  with  Modern  Thought  her  life  has 
been  chiefly  passed  in  one  or  another  of  three 
phases:  She  has  just  been  shocked,  she  is  being 
shocked,  or  she  fears  that  she  is  about  to  be  shocked. 

She  is  nearing  fifty  and  rather  stout,  though  her 
figure  is  still  not  bad.  She  has  an  abundance  of 
chestnut  hair,  all  her  own,  and  naturally  wavy ;  her 
hands  are  pretty,  her  feet  are  pretty,  her  face  is 
pretty.  Her  mouth  is  very  small,  almost  dispro 
portionately  so,  and  her  eyes  are  very  large  and 
blue  and  very  wide  open.  She  was  intended  for  a 
placid  woman,  but  Hermione  and  Modern  Thought 
have  made  complete  placidity  impossible.  She  has 
[1341 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  and  Fothergil  Finch 

a  fondness  for  rich  brocades  and  pretty  fans  and 
chocolate  candy  and  big  bowls  of  roses  and  com 
fortable  chairs.  When  she  was  Hermione's  age 
she  used  to  do  water  color  sketches;  the  outlines 
were  penciled  in  by  her  drawing  teacher,  and  she 
washed  on  the  color  very  smoothly  and  neatly ;  but 
she  heard  a  great  many  stories  concerning  the  dis 
solute  lives  that  artists  lead  and  she  gave  it  up. 
Nevertheless,  she  sometimes  says:  "Hermione 
comes  by  her  interest  in  Art  quite  naturally." 

Fothergil  Finch  and  I  called  recently.  Hermione 
was  not  in,  and  her  mother  suggested  that  we  wait 
for  her.  Hermione's  mother  looks  upon  all  of 
Hermione's  friends  with  more  or  less  suspicion, 
and  she  would  not  permit  Fothergil  in  particular  to 
be  about  the  place  for  a  moment  if  she  were  not 
obliged  to ;  but  she  does  not  have  the  requisite  stern 
ness  of  character  to  resist  her  daughter.  Fothergil, 
knowing  that  he  is  not  approved  of,  scarcely  does 
himself  justice  when  Hermione's  mother  is  pres 
ent;  although  he  endeavors  to  avoid  offending  her. 

"Have  you  seen  the  play,  'Young  America'?" 
asked  Fothergil,  searching  for  a  safe  topic  of  con 
versation. 

A  little  ripple  of  alarm  immediately  ruffled  the 
lakeblue  innocence  of  her  eyes. 

"If  it  is  a  Problem  Play,  I  have  not,"  she  said. 
"I  consider  such  things  dangerous." 
[135] 


Hermione 

"But  it  isn't,  you  know,"  said  Fothergil  eagerly. 
"It's  a — a — it's  a  perfectly  nice  play.  It's  about 
a  dog!" 

"About  a  dog !"  Her  eyebrows  went  up,  and  her 
mouth  rounded  itself  with  the  conviction  that  no 
perfectly  nice  play  could  possibly  be  about  a  dog. 
"I  think  that  is  dreadfully  Coarse!"  she  said. 

"But  it  isn't,"  protested  Fothergil.  "It's  just  the 
sort  of  thing  you'd  like." 

"Indeed!"  She  felt  slightly  insulted  at  his  as 
sumption  of  what  she  would  like,  and  dismissed 
the  subject  with  a  wave  of  her  pretty  hand.  Fother 
gil  tried  again. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  ingratiatingly,  "that  you  haven't 
been  bothered  much  by  mosquitoes."  She  looked 
a  bit  frightened,  but  said  nothing,  and  he  dashed  on 
determinedly.  "You  know,  this  is  a  new  variety 
of  mosquitoes  we've  been  having  this  year.  Most 
of  them  have  stripes  on  their  legs,  you  know,  but 
these  have  black  legs  this  year.  But  maybe  you 
haven't  noticed " 

He  stopped  in  midcareer.  The  preposterous  idea 
that  she  could  be  interested  in  examining  the  legs 
of  mosquitoes  had  too  evidently  outraged  Her- 
mione's  mother.  Fothergil,  flushed  and  embar 
rassed,  tried  to  make  it  better  and  made  it  worse. 

"Maybe  you  haven't  noticed  their — er — limbs," 
said  Fothergil. 

[136] 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  and  Fothergil  Finch 

"I  have  not,"  she  murmured. 

Fothergil  desperately  persevered. 

"We  don't  see  so  much  as  we  used  to  of— 

of "  (I  am  sure  he  didn't  know  how  he  was 

going  to  finish  the  sentence  when  he  began  it,  but 
he  plunged  ahead) — "of  the  Queen  Anne  style  of 
architecture." 

With  visible  relief,  and  yet  with  a  lurking  suspi 
cion,  she  assented.  And  Fothergil,  feeling  himself 
on  safe  ground  at  last,  went  on: 

"Don't  you  think  she  was  one  of  the  most  inter 
esting  queens  in  English  history — Queen  Anne? 
Do  you  remember  the  anecdote " 

But  she  checked  him,  frightened  again : 

"I  do  not  wish  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Finch,"  she  said. 

"But,"  said  Fothergil,  "she  was  a  most  unex 
ceptionable  Queen — not  like,  er — not  like — well, 
Cleopatra,  you  know,  or  any  of  those  bad  ones." 

Hermione's  mother  was  silent,  but  it  was  appar 
ent  that  she  feared  the  talk  was  about  to  veer  toward 
Cleopatra. 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  she  said,  "the  lives  of 
queens  were  considered  rather  dangerous  reading 
for  young  women.  You  need  not  go  into  details, 
please." 

I  couldn't  stand  it  any  more  myself.  "If  you'll 
just  tell  Hermione  I  called,"  I  said,  edging  toward 
the  door.  Fothergil,  however,  stuck  it  out.  In  the 
[137] 


Hermlone 

frenzy  of  embarrassment  he  must  have  lost  his 
head  completely.  For  as  I  left  I  heard  him  be 
ginning: 

"Did  you  read  the  story  in  the  papers  today  of 
the  man  who  killed  his  wife?  Crimes  of  passion  are 
becoming  more  and  more  frequent.  .  .  ." 


PRISON   REFORM   AND   POISE 

AREN'T  you  just  crazy  about  prison  reform? 
The  most  wonderful  man  talked  to  us — to 
our  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers,  you 
know — about  it  the  other  evening. 

It  made  me  feel  that  I'd  be  willing  to  do  anything 
— simply  anything! — to  help  those  poor,  unfortunate 
convicts.  Collect  money,  you  know,  or  give  talks, 
or  read  books  about  them,  or  make  any  other 
sacrifice. 

Even  get  them  jobs.  One  ought  to  help  them  to 
start  over  again,  you  know. 

Though  as  for  hiring  one  of  them  myself,  or 
rather  getting  Papa  to — well,  really,  you  know, 
one  must  draw  the  line  somewhere! 

But  it's  a  perfectly  fascinating  subject  to  take  up, 
prison  reform  is. 

It  gives  one  such  a  sense  of  brotherhood — and  of 
service — it's  so  broadening,  don't  you  think? — tak 
ing  up  things  like  that? 

And  one  must  be  broad.     I  ask  myself  every 
night  before  I  go  to  bed :   "Have  I  been  broad  to 
day?     Or  have  I  failed?" 
[139] 


Hermione 

Though,  of  course,  one  can  be  too  broad,  don't 
you  think? 

What  I  mean  is,  one  must  not  be  so  broad  that 
one  loses  one's  poise  in  the  midst  ">f  things. 

Poise !    That  is  what  this  age  needs ! 

I  suppose  you've  heard  wide-brimmed  hats  are 
coming  in  again? 


AN  EXAMPLE  OF  PSYCHIC  POWER 

HAVE  you  thought  deeply  concerning  the 
Persistence  of  Personal  Identity? 

We  took  it  up  the  other  evening— our 
little  group,  you  know — in  quite  a  thorough  way— 
devoted  an  entire  evening  to  it. 

You  see,  there's  a  theory  that  after  Evolution  has 
evolved  just  as  far  as  it  possibly  can,  everything 
will  go  to  smash,  but  then  Evolution  will  start  all 
over  again.  And  everything  that  has  happened  be 
fore  will  happen  again. 

Only  the  question  is  whether  the  people  to  whom 
it  is  happening  again  will  know  whether  they 
are  the  same  people  to  whom  it  has  happened 
before. 

That's  where  the  question  of  the  Persistence  of 
Personal  Identity  comes  in.  Frightfully  fascinat 
ing,  isn't  it? 

For  my  part  I'd  just  as  soon  not  be  reincarnated 
as  to  be  reincarnated  and  not  know  anything  about 
it,  wouldn't  you? 

Of  course,  one's  Subliminal  Consciousness  might 
know  about  it,  and  give  one  intimations. 
[Hi] 


Hermione 

I've  had  intimations  like  that  myself — really! 

I'm  dreadfully  psychic,  you  know. 

Sometimes  I  quite  startle  people  with  my  psychic 
power. 

Fothergil  Finch  was  here  the  other  evening — 
you  know  Fothergil  Finch,  the  poet,  don't  you? — 
and  I  astounded  him  utterly  by  reading  his  inmost 
thoughts. 

He  had  just  finished  reading  one  of  his  poems — 
a  vers  libre  poem,  you  know ;  all  about  Strength  and 
Virility,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Fothergil  is  just 
simply  fascinated  by  Strength  and  Virility,  though 
you  never  would  think  it  to  look  at  him — he  is  so — 
so — well,  if  you  get  what  I  mean  you'd  think  to 
look  at  him  that  he'd  be  writing  about  violets  instead 
of  cave  men. 

"Fothy,"  I  said,  when  he  had  finished  reading 
the  poem,  "I  know  what  you  are  thinking — what 
you  are  feeling!" 

"What?"  he  said. 

"You're  thinking,"  I  said,  "how  wonderful  a 
thing  is  the  Cosmic  Urge !" 

Thoughts  come  to  me  just  like  that — leap  to  me — 
right  out  of  nowhere,  so  to  speak. 

Fothy  was  staggered;  he  actually  turned  pale; 
for  a  minute  or  two  he  could  scarcely  speak.    There 
had  been  scarcely  a  word  about  the  Cosmic  Urge  in 
the  poem,  you  know ;  he'd  hardly  mentioned  it. 
[142] 


An  Example  of  Psychic  Power 

"It  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  when  he  got  over  the 
shock;  "wonderful  to  be  understood!"  And  you 
know,  really — poor  dear! — so  many  people  don't 
understand  Fothy  at  all.  Nor  what  he  writes, 
either. 

But  the  strangest  thing  was — I  wish  I  could  make 
you  understand  how  positively  eerie  it  makes  me 
feel — that  just  the  instant  before  he  said,  "It  is 
wonderful  to  be  understood !"  I  knew  he  was  going 
to  say  it.  I  got  that  psychically,  too! 

"Fothy,"  I  said,  "it  is  absolutely  weird — I  eaves 
dropped  on  your  brain  the  second  time !" 

"Wonderful!"  he  said,  "but  the  still  more  won 
derful  thing  would  be " 

And  before  he  could  finish  the  sentence  it  hap 
pened  the  third  time!  I  interrupted  and  finished  it 
for  him. 

"The  still  more  wonderful  thing  would  be,"  I 
said,  "if  it  were  not  so." 

"Heavens!"  he  cried,  "this  is  getting  positively 
ghostly." 

And  you  know,  it  almost  was.  Not  that  I'm  su 
perstitious  at  all,  you  know,  in  the  vulgar  way.  But 
in  the  dim  room — I  always  have  just  candlelight  in 
the  drawing-room — it  fits  in  with  my  more  reflective 
moods,  somehow — I  believe  one  must  suit  one's 
environment  to  one's  mood,  don't  you  ? — in  the  dim 
room,  all  thos-e  thoughts  flying  back  and  forth  be- 
[143] 


Hermione 

tween  my  brain  and  his  gave  me  a  positively  creepy 
feeling.  And  Fothy  was  so  shaken  I  had  to  give 
him  a  drink  of  Papa's  Scotch  before  he  went  out 
into  the  night 


SOME  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS 

(As  Expressed  by  Fothergil  Finch,  the  Vers  Libre 
Bard} 

OH,  the  Beautiful  Mud !  I  always  leave  it  on 
my  boots !  It  is  sacred  to  me.  Because  in 
it  are  the  souls  of  lilies ! 

The  Hog  should  be  a  sacred  beast.  Hogs  are 
beautiful!  They  are  close  to  the  Mire!  Oh,  to  be 
a  Swine! 

What  is  more  eloquent  than  a  Sneeze?  The 
Sneeze  is  the  protest  of  the  Free  Spirit  against  the 
Smug  Citizen  who  never  exposes  himself  to  a  cold. 
Oh,  Beautiful  Sneezes!  Oh,  to  make  my  life  one 
loud  explosive  Sneeze  in  the  face  of  Convention 
ality  ! 

What  is  so  free,  so  untrammeled,  so  ungyved,  so 
unconventional,  as  an  Influenza  Germ?  From 
throat  to  throat  it  floats,  full  of  the  spirit  of  true 
democratic  brotherhood,  making  the  masses  equal 
with  the  classes,  careless,  winged,  ungyved!  Oh, 
the  Beautiful  Germ!  Oh,  to  be  an  Influenza  Germ! 

What  is  so  naive  as  a  Hiccough !  Oh,  to  be  in- 
[145] 


Hermione 

genuous,  unspoiled,  beautiful,  barbaric!  Oh,  the 
hiccoughs,  the  beautiful  hiccoughs,  the  hiccoughs 
of  Art  uttered  against  the  hurricane  of  time! 

Bugs  are  Beautiful!  Oh,  the  beautiful,  sleek 
slithery  bugs.  Oh,  to  be  a  water-bug  of  poesy  skip 
ping  across  the  flood  of  oblivion!  Oh,  to  be  a  Bug! 

I  went  down  to  the  waterfront  where  they  sell 
fish  and  there  I  saw  a  fisherman  who  had  caught  a 
Dogfish,  and  he  cursed,  but  I  said  to  him,  "Do  not 
curse  the  Dogfish !  The  Dogfish  is  Symbolical !  The 
Dogfish  is  beautiful!  Beautiful!" 

Oh !  the  lovely  Garbage  Scows !  I  went  down  the 
bay,  and  there  I  saw  them  dump  the  Garbage  Scows ! 
I  said  to  the  man  who  sailed  my  boat :  "What  does 
the  Garbage  Scow  mean  to  you?"  He  was  a  Philis 
tine  ;  he  was  Bourgeois ;  he  was  Smug ;  he  was  Con 
ventional,  and  he  said:  "A  Garbage  Scow  means  a 
Garbage  Scow  to  me !"  But  I  said  to  him :  "You 
are  Academic;  you  are  Conservative!  Garbage 
Scows  are  Lovely  Symbols!  Oh,  my  Argosies  of 
Dream!  Oh,  my  Beautiful  Garbage  Scows!  Some 
day  even  the  Philistines  of  benighted  America  will 
see  the  Spiritual  Significance  of  the  Lovely  Garbage 
Scow!" 

I   found  a  Glue  Factory,  a  Free  Untrammeled 

Glue  Factory!     It  was  expressing  itself.     It  was 

asserting  its  individuality.     It  was  saying  to  the 

Blind  Complacent  Pillars  of  Polite  Society:     "My 

[146] 


Some  Beautiful  Thoughts 


aroma  is  not  your  aroma,  but  my  aroma  is  my 
own !"  Oh,  the  Courageous  Glue  Factory,  the  Free, 
Unfettered  Glue  Factory!  A  thousand  Glue  Fac 
tories,  from  Maine  to  Oregon,  are  thus  rebuking 
Class  Prejudice  and  Bourgeois  Smugness.  Like 
Poets,  like  Prophets  of  the  New  Art/  they  stand, 
Glue  Factory  after  Glue  Factory,  Expressing  their 
Egos,  Being  Themselves,  undaunted,  unshackled, 
strong,  independent,  virile!  Oh,  to  be  the  Poet  of 
the  Super  Glue  Factory! 

With  violets  in  my  hands  I  wandered  to  the 
wilds,  and  there  I  met  a  Buzzard.  He  was  Being 
Himself!  I  wove  a  wreath  of  the  violets  and  I 
crowned  the  Buzzard,  and  the  Buzzard  said,  "Why 
do  you  crown  me?"  And  I  said,  "Oh,  Lovely  Buz 
zard,  are  you  not  Being  Yourself?  Are  you  not 
rebuking  the  Trivial  Conventionalities  of  Our  Or 
ganized  Society?  I  know  your  Dream,  O  Buzzard! 
Accept  this  Crown  of  Violets  from  our  little 
group !" 

Come  with  me  to  the  zoo,  and  we  will  bare  our 
Souls  to  the  Hyena,  and  the  Hyena  will  commune 
with  us,  and  we  will  know  the  Meaning  of  Life! 
Oh,  the  Lovely  Hyena! 


THE  BOURGEOIS  ELEMENT  AND  BACK 
GROUND 

ISN'T  it  simply  wonderful  about  D'Annunzio 
enlisting  as  a  common  soldier  and  digging 
trenches  along  with  the  Due  D'Abruzzi  and 
those  other  Italian  poets?  Or  was  it  D'Abruzzi? 
Anyhow,  it  was  one  of  those  poets  that  were  al 
ways  talking  about  the  Superman. 

Although,  I  must  say,  one  doesn't  hear  so  much 
about  the  Superman  these  days,  does  one?  The 
Superman  is  going  out,  you  know. 

One  of  my  friends — she's  quite  an  advanced 
thinker,  too,  and  belongs  to  our  little  group — told 
me  a  year  or  so  ago,  "Hermione,  I  will  never  marry 
until  I  can  find  a  Superman !" 

"Of  course,  that  is  all  right,  my  dear,"  I  said 
to  her,  "but  how  about  Genetics  ?" 

Because,  you  know,  the  slogan  of  our  little  group 
• — that  is,  one  of  the  slogans — is  "Genetics  or  Spin- 
sterhood !" 

It  made  her  quite  angry  for  some  reason.  She 
pursed  her  lips  up  and  acted  shocked. 

"It  is  all  very  well,  Hermione,"  she  said,  "to 
[148] 


The  Bourgeois  Element  and  Background 

discuss  Genetics  in  the  abstract.  But  to  connect  the 
discussion  with  the  marriage  of  a  friend  is  not,  to 
my  mind,  the  proper  thing  at  all !" 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  more  utterly  in 
consistent? 

Oh,  Consistency!  Consistency!  Isn't  Consist 
ency  perfectly  wonderful! 

But  that  is  always  the  way  when  it  comes  to 
a  discussion  of  Sex.  The  Bourgeois  Element  are 
never  Fundamental  and  Thorough  in  their  treat 
ment  of  Sex,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 

And,  as  Fothergil  Finch  says,  in  this  country  we 
are  nearly  all  Bourgeois. 

We  have  not  enough  Background  for  one  thing1. 

If  all  the  little  groups  the  country  over  would 
take  up  the  matter  of  Background  in  a  serious  way, 
something  might  be  done  about  it,  don't  you  think  ? 

We  must  organize — we  who  are  the  intellectual 
leaders,  you  know — and  start  an  effective  propa 
ganda  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  more  Back 
ground. 


TAKING  UP  THE  LIQUOR  PROBLEM 

WE'RE  thinking  of  taking  up  the  Liquor 
Problem — our  little  group,  you  know, — 
in  quite  a  serious  way. 

The  Working  Classes  would  be  so  much  better 
off  without  liquor.  And  we  who  are  the  leaders 
in  thought  should  set  them  an  example. 

So  a  number  of  us  have  decided  to  set  our  faces 
very  sternly  against  drinking  in  public. 

Of  course,  a  cocktail  or  two  and  an  occasional 
stinger,  is  something  no  one  can  well  avoid  taking, 
if  one  is  dining  out  or  having  supper  after  the 
theater  with  one's  own  particular  crowd. 

But  all  the  members  of  my  own  particular  little 
group  have  entered  into  a  solemn  agreement  not 
to  take  even  so  much  as  a  cocktail  or  a  glass  of 
wine  if  any  of  the  working  classes  happen  to  be 
about  where  they  can  see  us  and  become  corrupted 
by  our  example. 

The  Best  People  owe  these  sacrifices  to  the 
Masses,  don't  you  think? 

Of  course,  the  waiters,  and  people  like  that, 
really  belong  to  the  working  classes  too,  I  suppose. 
[150] 


Taking  Up  the  Liquor  Problem 

But,  as  Fothergil  Finch  says,  very  often  one 
wouldn't  know  it.  And  who  could  expect  a  waiter 
to  be  influenced  one  way  or  another  by  anything? 
And  it's  the  home  life  of  the  working  classes  that 
counts,  anyhow. 

When  we  took  up  Sociology — we  gave  several 
evenings  to  Sociological  Discussion,  you  know,  be 
sides  doing  a  lot  of  practical  Welfare  Work — it  was 
impressed  upon  me  very  strongly  that  if  one  is  to 
do  anything  at  all  for  the  Masses  one  must  first 
sweeten  their  Home  Life. 

Though  Papa  made  me  stop  poking  around  into 
the  horrid  places  where  they  live  for  fear  I  might 
catch  some  dreadful  disease. 

And  the  people  we  visited  weren't  at  all  grateful. 
So  very  often  the  Masses  are  not. 

One  dreadful  woman,  you  know,  claimed  that 
she  couldn't  keep  her  rooms — she  had  two  rooms, 
and  she  cooked  and  washed  and  slept  and  sewed 
in  them  and  there  were  five  in  the  family — claimed 
that  she  couldn't  keep  her  rooms  in  any  better  shape 
because  they  were  so  out  of  repair  and  the  plumb 
ing  was  bad  and  the  windows  leaked  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know,  and  one  of  the  rooms  was 
entirely  dark. 

I  preached  the  doctrine  of  fresh  air  and  sun 
shine  and  cleanliness  to  her,  you  know,  and  the  im 
pudent  thing  told  me  Papa  owned  the  building  and 


Her  mi  one 

it  wasn't  true  at  all — Papa  only  belonged  to  the 
company  that  owned  the  building.  One  can't  do 
much  for  people  who  will  not  be  truthful  with  one, 
can  one? 

Besides,  it  is  the  Silent  Influence  that  counts  more 
than  arguments  and  visiting. 

If  one  makes  one's  life  what  it  should  be  Good 
will  Radiate. 

Vibrations  from  one's  Ego  will  permeate  all 
classes  of  society. 

And  that  is  the  way  we  intend  to  make  ourselves 
felt  with  regard  to  the  Liquor  Problem.  We  will 
inculcate  abstemiousness  by  example. 

Abstemiousness,  Fothy  Finch  says,  should  be  our 
motto,  rather  than  Abstinence.  We  shall  be  quite 
careful  not  to  identify  ourselves  with  the  more 
vulgar  aspects  of  the  propaganda. 

And  of  course  at  social  functions  in  our  private 
homes  total  abstinence  is  quite  out  of  the  question. 

The  working  classes  wouldn't  get  any  example 
from  our  homes,  anyhow;  for  of  course  we  never 
come  into  contact  with  them  there. 

But  the  working  classes  must  be  saved  from 
themselves,  even  if  all  the  employers  of  labor  have 
to  write  out  a  list  of  just  what  they  shall  eat  and 
drink  and  make  them  buy  only  those  things.  They 
simply  must  be  saved. 

Not  that  they'll  appreciate  it.  They  never  do.  If 
[152] 


Taking  Up  the  Liquor  Problem 

I  were  not  an  incorrigible  idealist  I  would  be  in 
clined  to  give  them  up. 

But  someone  must  give  up  his  life  to  leading  them 
onward  and  upward.  And  who  is  there  to  do  it  if 
not  we  leaders  of  Modern  Thought? 


THE    JAPANESE    ARE    WONDERFUL:,    IF 
YOU  GET  WHAT  I  MEAN 

DON'T  you  just  dote  on  the  Japanese? 
They're  so  esoteric — and  subtle  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  aren't  they? 

Just  look  at  Buddhism  and  Shintoism,  for  in 
stance.  Could  anything  be  more  subtle  and 
esoteric  ? 

We've  been  taking  them  up — our  Little  Group 
of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know — and  they're  won 
derful,  simply  wonderful! 

Not,  of  course,  that  one  would  be  a  Buddhist  or 
a  Shintoist — but  it's  broadening  to  the  mind,  don't 
you  think,  to  come  into  contact  with  the  great 
thought  of — of — well,  really  of  people  like  Shinto, 
you  know,  and  those  other  sages? 

And  how  wonderfully  artistic  they  are — the 
Japanese ! 

The  new  parasols  are  quite  Japanese,  you  know. 
Haven't  you  seen  them  ? 

I  have  three,  for  different  costumes.  One  is 
covered  with  embroidered  Japanese  crepe,  and  an 
other  with  martine  silk. 

[154] 


The  Japanese  Are  Wonderful 

But  the  one,  I  think,  that  expresses  me  the  most 
accurately — the  one  that  represents  my  individual 
ity,  really — is  made  with  gold  spokes  covered  with 
black  Chantilly  lace.  Japanese  shape,  you  know, 
and  French  workmanship. 

And  one  must  strive  to  represent  one's  self  if  one 
is  to  be  honest. 

One  must  put  one's  soul  into  one's  environment. 

Although  Environment  isn't  what  it  used  to  be. 
You  don't  hear  Environment  spoken  of  nearly  as 
often  as  you  did. 

Environment  is  going  out. 

But  besides  being  so  esoteric  and  exotic  and  ar 
tistic,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  the  Japanese  are 
wonderfully  up  to  date,  too. 

Do  you  know,  they  actually  have  a  battleship 
named  The  Tango! 

Have  you  thought  deeply  on  Interstellar  Com 
munication  ? 

It  promises  to  be  one  of  the  great  new  problems. 

The  loveliest  man  talked  to  us  about  it  the  other 
evening.  "Interstellar  Communication  in  Its  Re 
lation  to  Recent  Psychic  Hypotheses" — that's  the 
title ;  I  wrote  it  down.  I  always  take  notes  of  a  title 
like  that.  It  helps  one  to  get  at  the  heart  of  the 
matter. 

Interstellar  Communication  is  wonderful — simply 
wonderful! 

[155] 


Hermione 

We're  going  to  take  up  Mars  soon. 

Mamma  said  to  me  only  yesterday:  "Hermione, 
you  simply  must  drop  some  of  your  serious  subjects 
during  the  hot  weather." 

"Mamma,"  I  told  her,  "that  was  all  very  well  in 
your  day — to  take  things  up  and  drop  them  at  will. 
But  people  didn't  have  a  Social  Conscience  in  those 
times.  We  advanced  thinkers  owe  a  duty  to  the 
race.  We  must  grapple  with  things.  We  are  not 
content  to  frivol,  I  -will  take  up  Mars !" 

And,  you  know,  I  don't  have  the  temperament  to 
remain  idle.  My  mind  must  be  active.  Sometimes 
when  I  think  how  active  my  mind  is,  I  wonder  my 
forehead  isn't  wrinkled. 

And  of  course  that  would  be  a  loss — anything 
is  a  loss  that  destroys  Beauty. 

For,  after  all,  Beauty  is  what  the  world  needs 
more  than  anything  else.  It's  a  serious  thought — 
how  far  Use  should  be  sacrificed  to  Beauty,  and 
Beauty  to  Use,  isn't  it? 

You  know  that's  why  I  can't  join  the  suffragists. 
I  am  one,  of  course,  but  that  suffragist  yellow  is 
such  a  horrid  color  I  simply  cannot  wear  it. 


SHE  REFUSES  TO  GIVE  UP  THE  COSMOS 

WE'VE  taken  up  Gertrude  Stein — our  Little 
Group  of  Serious  Thinkers,  you  know — 
and  she's  wonderful;  simply  wonderful. 

She  Suggests  the  Inexpressible,  you  know. 

Of  course,  she  is  a  Pioneer.  And  with  all 
Pioneers — don't  you  think — the  Reach  is  greater 
than  the  Grasp. 

Not  that  you  can  tell  what  she  means. 

But  in  the  New  Art,  one  doesn't  have  to  mean 
things,  does  one?  One  strikes  the  chords,  and  the 
chords  vibrate. 

Aren't  Vibrations  just  too  perfectly  lovely  for 
anything? 

The  loveliest  man  talked  to  us  the  other  night 
about  World  Movements  and  Cosmic  Vibrations. 

You  see,  every  time  the  Cosmos  vibrates  it  means 
a  new  World  Movement. 

And  the  Souls  that  are  in  Tune  with  the  Cosmos 
are  benefited  by  these  World  Movements.  The 
other  souls  will  get  harm  out  of  them. 

Frightfully  interesting,  isn't  it? — the  Cosmos,  I 
mean. 

[157] 


Hermione 

I  have  given  so  much  thought  to  it!  It  has  be 
come  almost  an  obsession  to  me. 

Only  the  other  evening  I  was  thinking  about  it. 
And  without  realizing  that  I  spoke  aloud  I  said, 
"I  simply  could  not  do  without  the  Cosmos !" 

Mamma — poor  dear  Mamma ! — she  is  so  terribly 
unadvanced,  you  know ! — Mamma  said  :  "Hermi- 
one,  I  do  not  know  what  the  Cosmos  is.  But  this  I 
do  know — not  another  Sex  Discussion  or  East 
Indian  Swami  will  ever  come  into  this  house!" 

"Mamma,"  I  said  to  her,  "I  will  not  give  up  the 
Cosmos.  It  means  everything  to  me ;  simply  every 
thing!" 

I  am  always  firm  with  Mamma;  it  is  kinder,  in 
the  long  run,  to  be  quite  positive.  But  what  I 
suffer  at  home  from  objections  to  the  advanced 
movements  nobody  knows! 

Nobody  but  the  Leaders  of  Thought  can  dream 
what  Martyrdom  is! 

Sacrifice !  Sacrifice !  That  is  the  keynote  of  the 
Liberal  Life! 

Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  ask 
myself:  "Have  I  shown  the  Sacrificial  Spirit  to 
day?  Or  have  I  failed?" 


THE  CAVE  MAN 

DON'T  you  think  the  primitive  is  just  simply 
too  fascinating  for  anything?     We've  all 
got  it  in  us,  you  know,  and  it  seems  like 
nowadays  the  more  cultured  and  advanced  one  is  the 
more  likely  the  primitive  is  to  break  out  on  one. 

I  have  a  strong  strain  of  the  primitive  in  me,  you 
know. 

I  wouldn't  take  anything  for  it — it's  simply  won 
derful — wonderful ! 

It  comes  over  me  so  strong  at  times,  the  yearning 
for  the  primitive  does,  that  I  just  sit  with  a  dreamy 
look  on  my  face  and  murmur  to  myself:  "Alone, 
alone — under  the  stars!  Alone!" 

Mamma  overheard  me  saying  that  the  other  day 
and  thought  I  had  gone  crazy,  and  she  said:  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  Hermione,  what  are  you  thinking 
about,  and  what  do  you  want?" 

"The  stars,"  I  murmured,  scarcely  knowing  that 
I  spoke  aloud,  "the  stars  and  my  Cave  Man!" 

Mamma  was  shocked — she  says  for  an  unmar 
ried  woman  to  think  of  Cave  Men  is  simply  in 
delicate. 

[159] 


Hermione 

Mamma  is  not  at  all  advanced,  you  know. 

She's  dear  and  sweet,  but  she  doesn't  believe  in 
Trial  Marriages  at  all. 

And  I  must  admit  they  shocked  me  when  I  first 
heard  about  them.  But  that  was  before  I  had  taken 
up  these  things  seriously. 

"Mamma,"  I  said  to  her,  "it  is  no  use  for  you  to 
pretend  to  be  shocked.  I  have  a  right  to  happiness. 
And  happiness  to  me  means  being  alone,  under  the 
stars,  and  walking  barefoot  and  bareheaded  in  the 
dew." 

"Alone  with  a  Cave  Man!"  she  said.  And  then 
she  cried. 

Tears! — that  is  so  like  the  old-fashioned  woman! 

"Mamma,"  I  said,  kindly,  but  firmly,  "if  it  is  my 
destiny  to  be  kidnaped  by  a  Cave  Man  and  taken 
into  the  waste  places,  under  the  stars,  can  I  avoid 
it?" 

She  said  I  could  at  least  be  respectable,  and  that 
I  was  acting  like  I  wanted  to  be  kidnaped. 

And,  you  know,  at  times  I  do  feel  as  if  that 
might  be  my  fate,  really.  I  am  so  psychic,  you 
know,  and  psychics  feel  their  fate  coming  on  quicker 
than  most  people. 

I  told  Mamma  that  I  felt  every  woman  had  a 

right  to  choose  the  father  of  her  own  children,  and 

she  was  shocked  again.     And  then  she  wanted  to 

know  what  being  kidnaped  by  a  Cave  Man  had 

[160] 


The  Cave  Man 


to  do  with  choosing  the  father  of  one's  own  chil 
dren,  and  how  did  I  know  but  these  Cave  Men 
kidnaped  a  different  woman  every  year? 

But  I  settled  her. 

"Mamma,"  I  said,  "you  are  not  advanced,  and 
so  I  cannot  argue  with  you.  You  wouldn't  under 
stand.  But  if  I  am  primitive — and  I  feel  that 
I  am — whose  fault  is  it?  Who  did  I  inherit  it 
from?" 

She  couldn't  say  anything  to  that.  She  didn't 
like  to  own  that  I  inherited  it  from  her.  And  she 
knew  if  she  blamed  it  onto  Papa  I  would  ask  her 
how  she  dared  to  deny  me  a  primitive  man  when 
she  had  married  one  herself. 

Finally  she  quit  crying  and  said,  pressing  her 
lips  together:  "Hermione,  do  you  know  any  of 
those  Cave  Men?" 

But  I  refused  to  answer.    I  went  to  my  room. 

Dissension  disturbs  the  soul's  harmony. 

One's  subliminal  consciousness  must  ever  vibrate 
in  harmony  with  the  Cosmic  All. 

I  never  fuss  when  a  person  disturbs  me.  I  just 
go  into  the  Silences  and  vibrate  there. 

But  I  kept  thinking:  "Do  I  know  any  Cave 
Men?" 

I  think  I  do — one.  He  tries  to  conceal  it  But 
it's  his  secret,  I'm  sure. 

He  has  the  most  luminous  eyes! 
[161] 


Hermione 

Like  a  wolf's,  you  know,  when  it  gallops  across 
the  waste  places — under  the  stars,  alone! 

And  the  way  he  eats!  I  don't  mean  that  he's 
noisy,  you  know.  But  the  way  he  crunched  a  chick 
en  bone  the  last  time  he  dined  with  me  was  perfectly 
wonderful — so  nonchalant,  you  know,  and  loudly 
and — and — well,  primitive!  I'm  sure  he's  one! 

I  wouldn't  go  autoing  with  him  for  anything — 
unless,  of  course,  he  gave  me  one  of  those  compel 
ling  glances,  like  Cave  Men  do  in  the  magazines, 
you  know.  Then  I'd  know  it  was  destiny  and  use 
less  to  resist. 


THE    LITTLE    GROUP    GIVES    A    PAGAN 
MASQUE 

The  Little  Group  gave  a  party 

And  all  of  the  gods  were  there, 
From  Thor  to  Miss  Susan  Astarte 

With  doo-daddles  gemming  her  hair, 

Bill  Baldur  and  Jane  Aphrodite, 

Dick  Vishnu  and  Benny  O'Baal, 
And  Bacchus  came  on  in  a  nightie 

With  little  pink  snakes  on  the  tail; 

Latin,  Phoenician  and  Hindu, 

Norse  and  Egyptian  and  Chink.  .  .  , 

Castor  was  watching  his  Twin  do 
Stunts,  with  a  brotherly  wink.  .  .  . 

Persephone  swearing  by  Hades.  .  .  . 

A  Norn  and  a  Sibylline  Simp.  .  .  . 
A  Momus,  who  showed  to  the  ladies 

The  latest  Olympian  limp. 

.Was  Hermione  present?    By  Crikey! 
(This  Crikey's  a  Whitechapel  joss) 
[163] 


Hermione 

Our  Hermy  attended  as  Psyche — > 
She  siked  and  she  got  it  across! 

And  Fothergil  Finch,  rather  gaumy 
With  Cosmic  cosmetics,  was  there, 

But  the  Swami  went  just  as  the  Swami, 
After  oiling  the  kinks  in  his  hair. 

I  said  to  Hermione :  "Goddess ! 

You're  graceful,  you're  Greek,  you're  a  rose, 
From  the  pinions  that  rise  from  your  bodice 

To  the  raddle  I  note  on  your  toes, 

"And  Fothergil,  here,  with  his  censer, 
And  his  little  cheeks  crimson  as  beets, 

Your  acolyte,  perfume-dispenser, 
Is  sweet  as  a  page  out  of  Keats, 

"But  tell  me,  my  Dea — my  Psyche! — 
(With  your  wings  outspread  as  to  race 

With  that  swift  and  acephalous  Nike 

Who  lost  her  bean  somewhere  in  Thrace) — * 

"My  Thea — my  classical  pigeon! — 

Is  not  your  Sincerity  shocked 
By  this  giddy  revue  of  religion  ?  .  .  . 

Are  none  of  these  gods  being  mocked?  .  .  . 
[164] 


The  Little  Group  Gives  a  Pagan  Masque 

"In  the  regions  unknowable — Thea! — 

Where  the  Noumenon  chums  with  the  Nous, 

Where  the  Idol  gets  hep  to  Idea, 
And  Pythagoras  ogles  a  Goose, 

"In  the  heavens  of  Brahm  and  Osiris, 

Are  they  peeved  with  this  revel,  I  ask?  *  „  . 

Does  Pluto  like  this,  where  his  fire  is?  ... 

What  in  hell  do  they  think  of  this  masque?  .  ,  , 

"Where  the  avatars,  drowsed  in  Nirvana, 

Lie  folded  like  bees  in  the  comb, 
Where  Jove  with  his  spangled  bandanna 

Wipes  off  the  nectareous  foam, 

"Where  the  deities,  avid  of  Is-ness, 
Resurge  from  the  Flivvers  that  Were, 

While  the  wild  Chaotical  Whizness 
Gives  place  to  a  Cosmic  Whir, 

"Do  they  relish  this  josh  of  the  josses? 

Do  they  lamp  not  the  same  with  a  grouch  ? 
Are  you  stinging  these  gloomy  Big  Bosses 

To  a  keener,  immortaler  ouch  ?" 

Hermione  murmured :  "How  eerie ! 

You  are  voicing  my  own  Inner  Mood! 
Ah,  me!  but  the  world  is  less  dreary 

If  one  is  but  Understood! 
[165] 


Hermione 

"And  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you,  for  rising 
To  my  personal  point  of  view.  .  .  . 

I  thank  you  for  Sympathising!  .  .  . 
Dear  man,  how  you  always  do!" 


SYMPATHY 

OF  course,  we're  out  of  town  for  the  sum 
mer — everybody's  out  of  town,  now — but 
I  motor  in  once  or  twice  a  week  to  keep  in 
touch  with  some  of  my  committees. 

Sociological  work,  for  instance,  keeps  right  up 
the  year  around. 

Of  course,  it's  not  so  interesting  as  in  the  winter. 
You  see  more  striking  contrasts  in  the  winter,  don't 
you  think? 

A  couple  of  girl  cousins  of  mine  from  Cincinnati 
have  been  here.  They're  interested  in  welfare  work 
of  all  sorts. 

"Hermione,"  they  said,  "we  want  to  see  the 
bread  line." 

"My  dears,"  I  said,  "I  don't  mind  showing  it  to 
you,  but  it's  nothing  much  to  see  in  summer.  It's 
in  the  winter  that  it  arouses  one's  deepest  sym 
pathies." 

And  one  must  keep  one's  sympathies  aroused. 
Often  I  say  to  myself  at  night :  "Have  I  been  sym 
pathetic  today,  or  have  I  f ailed f" 
[167] 


Hermlone 

Mamma  often  lacks  sympathy.  She  objects  to 
having  me  reopen  my  Salon  this  winter. 

"Hermione,"  she  said,  "I  don't  mind  the  subjects 
you  take  up— or  the  people  you  take  up  with — if 
you  only  take  them  up  one  at  a  time.  And  I  am 
glad  when  your  own  little  group  meets  here,  be 
cause  it  keeps  you  at  home.  But  I  will  not  have 
all  the  different  kinds  of  freaks  here  at  the  same 
time,  sitting  around  discussing  free  love  and  sex 
education." 

I  was  indignant  "Mamma,"  I  said,  "what  right 
have  you  to  say  they  would  discuss  that  all  the 
time?" 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  have  noticed  that  no  mat 
ter  whether  they  start  with  sociology  or  psychology, 
they  always  get  around  to  Sex  in  the  end." 

Isn't  it  funny  about  pure-minded  people  ? — in  the 
generation  before  this  anything  that  shocked  a  pure- 
minded  person  like  Mamma  was  sure  to  be  bad. 

But  now  it's  only  the  evil-minded  people  who 
ever  get  shocked  at  all,  it  seems. 

The  really  purest  of  the  pure-minded  people  don't 
get  shocked  by  anything  at  all  these  days. 

I  think  Mamma  is  either  getting  purer-minded  all 
the  time  or  losing  some  of  it — I  can't  tell  which — 
for  she  isn't  shocked  as  easily  as  she  was  a  few 
months  ago. 

But  I  got  a  shock  myself  recently. 
[168] 


Sympathy 

I  found  out  that  plants  have  Sex,  you  know. 

Just  think  of  it — carrots,  onions,  turnips,  pota 
toes,  and  everything! 

Isn't  it  frightful  to  think  that  this  agitation  has 
spread  to  the  vegetable  kingdom  ? 

I  vowed  I  would  never  eat  another  potato  as 
long  as  I  lived! 

And,  after  all,  what  good  does  it  do — letting  the 
vegetable  kingdom  have  Sex,  I  mean? 

Even  a  good  thing,  you  know,  can  be  carried  too 
far. 

"Mamma,"  I  told  her,  "you  are  hopelessly  behind 
the  times.  Sex  is  a  Great  Fact.  Someone  must 
discuss  it.  And  who  but  the  Leaders  of  Thought 
are  worthy  to?" 

I  intend  to  say  nothing  more  about  it  now — but 
when  the  time  comes  I  will  reopen  my  Salon. 

And  as  far  as  talking  about  Sex  is  concerned — 
the  right  sort  of  a  mind  will  get  good  out  of  it,  and 
the  wrong  sort  will  get  harm. 

I  don't  really  like  discussions  of  Sex  any  more 
than  Mamma  does.  No  really  nice  girl  does. 

But  we  advanced  thinkers  owe  a  duty  to  the 
race. 

Not  that  the  race  is  grateful.  Especially  the 
lower  classes. 

It  was  only  last  week  that  I  was  endeavoring  to 
introduce  the  cook  to  some  advanced  ideas — for  her 
[169] 


Hermione 

own  good,  you  know,  and  because  one  owes  a  spir 
itual  duty  to  one's  servants — and  she  got  angry  and 
gave  notice. 

The  servant  problem  is  frightful.    It  will  have  to 
be  taken  up  seriously. 


BLOUSES,   BULGARS    AND    BUTTERMILK 

SOME  of  us — Our  Little  Group  of  Advanced 
Thinkers,  you  know — are  going  in  for  Bul 
garian  buttermilk. 

It  came  in  about  the  time  the  Bulgarian  blouses 
did — there  was  a  war  over  there  somewhere,  you 
know,  before  this  big  war,  that  made  it  fashionable. 

But  the  blouses  went  out,  and  the  buttermilk 
stayed  in. 

It  seems  there's  a  Bulgarian  by  the  name  of 
Metchnikoff  in  Paris  who  sits  down  and  designs 
these  things — the  buttermilk,  you  know,  not  the 
blouses. 

Isn't  science  wonderful — simply  wonderful! 

We're  going  to  take  up  Metchnikoff  in  a  serious 
way.  You  know  what  he  aims  to  do  is  to  lengthen 
life. 

The  question  is:  "Should  life  be  lengthened? 
Or  should  it  not?" 

The  Leaders  of  Thought  will  have  to  thresh  that 
out  soon. 

The  question  of  old  age  is  a  subtle  one,  isn't  it? 

And  it's  very  typical  of  our  times,  don't  you 


Hermione 

think,  that  we  should  discuss  the  problems  of  old 
age? 

Other  epochs  have  done  it,  of  course,  but  not 
optimistically. 

The  question  enters  into  everything — even  milli 
nery. 

I'm  having  the  loveliest  hat  adapted  from  a 
French  model — to  wear  with  my  lingerie  costumes, 
you  know — a  wide-brimmed  black  lace  with  a  black 
velvet  crown. 

It's  only  recently  that  young  women  could  afford 
to  wear  black,  even  when  it  was  becoming.  When 
Mamma  was  young  it  was  a  sign  that  youth  was 
past. 

And  nowadays,  age  doesn't  matter  so  much  one 
way  or  another.  A  person  is  the  age  one  feels, 
you  know. 

Have  you  thought  deeply  on  Hypnagogic  Illu 
sions  ?  We're  planning  to  take  them  up. 


TWILIGHT   SLEEP 

HAVE  you  read  anything  about  the  Twilight 
Sleep  yet?  It's  wonderful;  simply  won 
der  fid! 

The  loveliest  man  told  our  little  group  all  about 
it — just  the  other  evening. 

"Hermione,"  said  Mamma,  "I  will  not  have  you 
taking  up  any  more  subjects  of  that  East  Indian 
character.  No  Swami  shall  ever  enter  this  house 
again!" 

"Mamma,"  I  said  to  her,  "you  are  hopelessly  un- 
advanced.  It  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
Going  into  the  Silences  or  Swamis.  It's  entirely 
scientific  and  not  psychic  at  all.  And  if  it  were 
psychic,  what  then?" 

"No  Swami,"  said  Mamma,  even  more  stubborn 
ly,  "shall  ever  darken  my  door  again!" 

Poor,  dear,  stupid  Mamma!  She  gets  things  so 
mixed ! 

"As  far  as  Swamis  are  concerned,"  I  told  her, 
"the  debt  we  owe  to  them  is  incalculable.    Where, 
for  instance,  would  we  have  ever  heard  of  Karma 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  Swamis?" 
[173] 


Hermione 

She  couldn't  answer;  she  just  looked  stubborn; 
unadvanced  people  always  look  stubborn  and  glare. 

"Where,"  I  said,  "did  we  get  the  Vedantas  and 
Vegetarianism  and  Alternate  Breathing  from?" 

She  couldn't  say  a  word.    She  just  pouted. 

"Who  taught  us,"  I  said,  "Transmigration  of 
Souls  and  Vibrations?" 

She  broke  down  and  cried. 

"Hermione,"  she  said,  "I  simply  hate  howdahs 
and  cobras  and  swastikas  and  all  those  Oriental 
things!" 

Mamma  has  no  idea  whatever  of  logic.  She  is  a 
typical  old-fashioned  woman. 

"Mamma,"  I  said,  "cry  as  much  as  you  like.  You 
shall  not  disturb  my  Inner  Harmony!  I  will  not 
permit  you  to.  And  my  mind  is  made  up.  I  will 
take  up  the  Twilight  Sleep  in  a  serious  way!" 

That  settled  it,  too. 

Have  you  noticed,  there's  been  just  a  hint  of 
autumn  in  the  air  these  last  few  days? 

Have  you  seen  the  new  styles  for  autumn  ?  They 
are  wonderful;  simply  wonderful! 


INTUITION 

IN  spite  of  all  we've  done  for  them — by  we  I 
mean  the  serious  thinkers  of  the  world — some 
people  are  so  frightfully  uncultured! 

A  girl  asked  me  the  other  day — and  the  surpris 
ing  thing  about  it,  too,  is  that  she  belonged  to  our 
own  Little  Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers — she  asked 
me :  "Hermione,  don't  you  just  dote  on  Rubaiyat's 
poetry?" 

For  a  moment  I  couldn't  think  who  she  meant  at 
all. 

"He's  not  an  American,  is  he?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "he's  some  sort  of  an  Ori 
ental." 

"It  isn't  Rubaiyat  you're  thinking  of,  my  dear," 
I  told  her.  "It's  Rabindranath.  Rabindranath 
Something-or-other,  that  new  man — he's  wonder 
ful,  my  dear,  simply  wonderful." 

And  then  she  quoted  some  of  it  and — the  idea 
is  too  absurd  for  anything,  but  what  do  you  sup 
pose  it  was? 

Omar  Khayyam — imagine ! 

And  really,  you  know,  it's  been  years  since  any- 
[175] 


Hermione 

body  quoted  Omar  Khayyam;  he's  quite  gone  out, 
you  know ! 

Even  the  question  whether  he  \vas  moral  doesn't 
attract  any  attention  any  more.  Although  as  far 
as  that  is  concerned,  the  pure  mind  will  get  purity 
out  of  him  and  the  impure  mind  will  get  impurity. 
Honi  soit  qui — what  is  the  rest  of  it?  Oh,  you 
know — it's  Latin — what  the  Romans  used  to  say 
about  Caesar's  wife  and  her  continual  suspicions. 

My,  how  a  suspicious  wife  can  handicap  a  manl 

But,  of  course,  as  women  get  more  and  more 
advanced,  and  know  about  the  lives  men  lead,  they 
are  finding  out  that  their  suspicions  were  justified. 

Their  intuitions  told  them  so  all  the  time. 

I  have  a  lot  of  intuition  myself — the  moment  a 
man  comes  I  judge  him  in  spite  of  myself. 

First  impressions  always  last  with  me,  too. 

You  know,  I'm  very  psychic. 

Sometimes  I  am  almost  frightened  when  I  think 
of  the  things  my  intuition  would  tell  me  if  I  al 
lowed  it  to  roam  at  will,  so  to  speak,  among  my 
friends  and  acquaintances. 

But  I  restrain  it.  One  must,  you  know.  The 
loveliest  man  gave  us  such  an  interesting  talk  on 
self-restraint  the  other  evening. 

And  now  I  always  ask  myself  the  last  thing  be 
fore  I  go  to  bed  at  night :  "Have  I  restrained  my 
self  today?    Or  have  I  failed?" 
[176] 


Intuition 

There  is  no  real  culture  without  restraint,  you 
know. 

That's  where  the  English  are  so  superior,  don't 
you  think? 

I  met  the  loveliest  Englishman  the  other  eve 
ning.  The  moment  I  saw  him  I  said  to  myself  he 
was  one  of  the  aristocracy.  Other  people  have 
noses  like  theirs,  of  course,  but  it  is  only  the  Eng 
lish  aristocracy  who  can  carry  that  kind  of  a  nose. 

And  my  intuition  was  correct — there  are  only 
five  lives  between  him  and  a  title,  and  one  of  those 
is  a  polo  player  and  another  is  at  the  front. 

Someone  told  me  his  family  were  paying  him 
not  to  go  home,  but  what  they  think  the  poor  man 
would  do  if  he  were  in  England  I  don't  know,  be 
cause  they  don't  duel  there,  you  know.  If  they 
duelled  there,  of  course,  he  might  dispose  of  all 
five  lives. 

Don't  you  think  those  old  European  families  are 
so,  so — well,  so  romantic,  somehow? 


STIMULATING    INFLUENCES 

SCIENCE  and  philanthropy  should  go  hand  in 
hand — two  hearts  that  beat  as  one,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

And  they  do,  too.  We  were  discussing  it  the 
other  evening — our  Little  Group  of  Serious  Think 
ers,  you  know — and  we  decided  that  what  philan 
thropy  owes  to  science  is  made  up  by  what  science 
owes  to  philanthropy. 

Isn't  it  wonderful  how  things  balance  like  that? 

There's  the  Twilight  Sleep  and  the  Mother- 
Teacher  Idea,  for  instance. 

Our  little  group  are  thinking  of  starting  a  propa 
ganda  to  urge  all  Teachers  to  be  Mothers. 

And,  of  course,  a  lot  of  them  might  object — but 
along  comes  the  Twilight  Sleep  and  takes  away  all 
possible  objections. 

And  along  comes  Philanthropy  to  put  the  Twi 
light  Sleep  within  the  reach  of  all — at  least,  we 
hope  it  will — and  we're  going  to  take  the  matter  up 
with  some  of  the  Philanthropists  right  away. 

Isn't    it    just    simply    wonderful   how    Modern 
Thought  brings  subjects  like  that  together? 
[178] 


Stimulating  Influences 


Of  course,  even  Modern  Thought  couldn't  do  it, 
unless  the  subjects  belonged  together,  anyhow,  could 
it?  Unless  they  were — er — er 

Well,  you  know,  Affinities.  Though  I  don't  care 
much  for  the  word. 

Affinities  have  quite  gone  out,  you  know.  You 
don't  hear  much  about  Affinities  this  autumn. 

Nor  Soul  Mates,  either,  for  that  matter. 

Though  I  always  will  say  there's  an  Idea  behind 
all  the  talk  about  them. 

Isn't  it  odd  about  things  that  way — how  Ideas 
come  and  go,  you  know,  and  become  quite  old- 
fashioned,  and  yet  all  the  time  have  a  quite  pro 
found  Idea  back  of  them? 

There's  Cubist  and  Futurist  Art,  for  instance — 
one  doesn't  hear  nearly  so  much  about  them  now, 
though  everyone  admitted  there  was  an  Idea  be 
hind  theni. 

Of  course,  no  one  knew  what  the  Idea  meant. 

But  it  was  stimulating. 

And  why  should  an  Idea  have  to  mean  anything 
if  it  is  Stimulating? 

Stimulation!  Stimulation!  That  is  the  secret 
of  Modern  Life! 

One  should  be  receptive  to  Stimulation — one 
should  strive  to  Stimulate! 

One  owes  it  to  the  Masses  to  Stimulate!     It  is 
the  duty  of  the  leaders  of  Advanced  Thought! 
[179] 


Hermione 

Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  ask  my 
self,  "Have  I  been  a  Stimulating  Influence  today? 
Or  have  I  failed?" 

Fothergil  Finch  says  I  Stimulate  him! 

Poor,  dear  man! — he's  becoming  quite — quite — 
well,  er— er — too  encouraged,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean. 

Yes,  that  is  the  way  with  poets. 

I  doubt  if  any  poet  ever  understood  a  purely 
Platonic  Friendship. 

I  gave  him  a  long,  long  look  last  evening  and 
said,  "Fothergil,  can  you  keep  on  the  Platonic 
Plane?" 

He  only  said,  "Alas!  The  Platonic  Plane!" 

I  hope  he  can.    I  need  him  for  my  Salon. 

I'm  having  the  entire  ground  floor  of  the  house 
done  over  for  that,  you  know,  and  I  may  reopen  it 
any  time  now ! 


POLITICS 

I'M  thinking  of  taking  up  politics  in  a  practical 
way. 

I've  never  been  an  active  suffragist,  you 
know,  on  account  of  that  horrid  yellow  color  on  the 
banners  and  things. 

But  one  must  sacrifice  Ideals  of  Beauty  to  Ideals 
of  Usefulness,  mustn't  one? 

And  politics  is  fascinating;  simply  fascinating! 

Going  about  and  organizing  working  girls,  you 
know,  and  seeing  Corrupt  Bosses  and  enlisting  them 
for  Moral  Causes,  and  making  one's  self  felt  as  a 
Force — could  one  make  one's  self  more  Utile? 

More  spiritually  Utile? 

Utility!  That  is  what  our  Leaders  of  Thought 
need  to  develop ! 

Nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  say  to 
myself:  "Have  I  been  Utile  today?  Or  have  I 
failed?" 

Politics,  practical  politics,  will  be  such  an  outlet 
for  my  personality,  too. 

And  when  I  reopen  my  Salon  I  can  make  it  count 
for  the  Cause,  too. 

[181] 


Hermione 

We  are  going  to  give  an  evening  soon — our 
Group  of  Advanced  Thinkers,  you  know — to  a  seri 
ous  and  thorough  study  of  political  economy.  They 
say  it's  simply  wonderful. 

The  loveliest  woman  talked  to  us  the  other  eve 
ning.  She's  a  poet.  When  women  have  charge  of 
affairs,  she  said,  Humanitarianism,  Idealism  and  t'he 
Poetic  Spirit  will  rule  in  public  life. 

Won't  that  be  lovely? 

But  we  must  be  practical,  and  get  the  Bosses  on 
our  side.  They  are  simply  horrid  people  socially 
and  ethically,  you  know.  But  there's  something 
frightfully  fascinating  about  the  idea  of  bearding 
them  in  their  dens  with  petitions  and  things. 

Though  how  the  idea  of  abolishing  men  alto 
gether  will  work  out  I  don't  know. 

Some  of  the  leaders  of  the  Cause  seem  to  want  it. 
I  have  no  doubt  it  could  be  done.  Some  plants  and 
insects  have  only  the  female  sex,  you  know.  And 
maybe  the  human  race  will  be  that  way  one  day. 

Although,  for  my  part,  if  they  could  only  be  re 
formed  I'd  favor  retaining  men. 

There's  something  about  them  so — so — well,  so 
masculine  somehow,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 

But  I  must  hurry — I  have  to  do  some  shopping. 

Clothes  are  a  bore,  aren't  they? 


HERMIONE    ON    PSYCHICAL    RESEARCH 

SPIRITUALISM  is  becoming  quite  the  thing, 
isn't  it? 

Dear  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  has  been  proving 
some  more  things  quite  recently,  you  know.  How 
anyone  could  doubt  a  man  with  such  a  lovely  head 
and  face  I  can't  imagine ! 

Spiritualism  and  Spiritism  are  quite  different,  you 
know.  It  has  been  a  long  time,  really,  since  Spir 
itualism  was  taken  seriously. 

Except  by  superstitious  people,  of  course. 

But  Spiritism  has  come  to  stay.  It  has  nothing 
to  do  with  superstition  at  all.  It's  part  of  Advanced 
Thought — quite  scientific,  you  know,  while  Spiritu 
alism  was  just  a  fad. 

And  Spiritualism  is  somehow  more — well,  er — 
vulgar,  if  you  get  what  I  mean.  The  sort  of  people 
one  cares  to  know  well  have  dropped  Spiritualism 
for  Spiritism. 

Though,  of  course,  a  ghost  is  a  ghost,  whether  it 
is  materialized  by  Spiritualism  or  Spiritism. 

I  have  been  often  told  that  I  am  naturally  very 
clairvoyant — if  I  were  developed  I  would  make  a 
[183] 


Hermione 

splendid  medium.  Mediums  have  seen  shapes  hov 
ering  around  my  head,  and  once  when  I  was  at 
school  I  did  some  automatic  writing. 

It  was  the  strangest,  easiest  thing!  I  had  a  pen 
cil  in  my  hand  and  without  thinking  of  anything  in 
particular  at  all  I  just  scribbled  away,  and  what  I 
wrote  was,  "When  in  the  course  of  human  events 
it  becomes  necessary ;  When  in  the  course  of  human 
events  it  becomes  necessary,"  over  and  over  again. 

I  was  quite  startled,  for  the  last  thing  I  had  been 
thinking  of  was  an  algebra  examination,  and  not 
history  at  all.  We  had  had  our  history  examination 
days  before. 

I  felt  as  if  an  unseen  hand  had  reached  out  of 
the  Silences  and  grasped  mine! 

Wasn't  it  weird? 

And  I  know  who  it  was,  too.  A  distant  relative 
of  Mamma's  on  her  father's  side,  by  marriage,  was 
one  of  the  men  who  signed  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in  Philadelphia,  in 
1776,  and  it  was  his  spirit  that  was  trying  to  de 
liver  his  message  through  me ! 

And  only  last  year  I  came  across  a  very  similar 
case.  Only  this  was  stranger  than  mine,  if  any 
thing.  For  it  happened  on  a  typewriter — which 
proves  that  the  veil  between  the  two  worlds  must 
be  very  thin,  doesn't  it,  if  the  spirits  are  taking  up 
modern  inventions? 

[184] 


Hermione  on  Psychical  Research 

It  happened  to  one  of  Papa's  stenographers.  I 
had  her  up  to  the  house  to  take  notes  for  a  report 
I  was  making  to  one  of  the  sociological  committees 
I  was  on  then. 

And  she  took  the  notes  and  put  them  into  shape 
for  me,  but  when  she  sent  the  report  to  me  the  back 
of  one  of  the  sheets  was  just  full  of  one  sentence 
written  over  and  over  again.  She  didn't  know  she'd 
included  that  sheet,  of  course. 

It  was  so  curious  I  asked  her  about  it. 

She  looked  a  little  queer  and  said  that  when  she 
wasn't  thinking  of  anything  in  particular,  but  just 
sitting  before  her  typewriter  and  not  working,  she 
always  wrote  that  sentence. 

"It  just  comes  into  my  head,"  she  said,  "and  I 
write  it." 

"An  occult  force  guides  your  fingers?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,   ma'am,  that's  it,"   she  said. 

Over  and  over  and  over  again  she  had  written, 
"Now  is  the  time  for  all  good  men  to  come  to  the 
aid  of  the  party." 

And  here  is  the  eerie  part  of  it — it  almost  fright 
ened  me  when  I  got  it  out  of  her! — her  father  had 
been  some  sort  of  a  politician;  a  district  leader,  or 
something  like  that.  And  he  was  dead,  and  she 
had  had  to  go  to  work. 

But  he  was  trying  to  deliver  a  message  through 
her! 

[185] 


Hermione 

Isn't  Psychical  Research  simply  wonderful! 

Not  that  I'd  care  to  go  in  for  any  vulgar  thing 
such  as  tin  trumpets,  you  know,  but 

Well,  there's  the  Astral  Body.  That  hasn't  been 
vulgarized  at  all,  if  you  get  what  I  mean.  Really, 
the  Best  People  have  them. 


ENVOY 

HERMIONE,  THE  DEATHLESS 

She  will  not  die! — in  Brainstorm  Slum 
Fake,  Nut  and  Freak  Psychologist 

Eternally  shall  buzz  and  hum, 

And  Spook  and  Swami  keep  their  tryst 
With  Thinkers  in  a  Mental  Mist. 

You  threaten  her  with  Night  and  Sorrow  ? 
Out  of  the  Silences,  I  wist, 

More  Little  Groups  will  rise  tomorrow ! 

The  lips  of  Patter  ne'er  are  dumb, 

The  Futile  Mills  shall  grind  their  grist 
Of  sand  from  now  till  Kingdom  Come; 

The  Winds  of  Bunk  are  never  whist. 

You  scowl  and  shake  an  honest  fist — 
You  threaten  her  with  Night  and  Sorrow  ? 

Go  slay  one  Pseudo-Scientist, 
More  Little  Groups  will  rise  tomorrow! 

With  Fudge  to  feed  the  Hungry  Bum 
She  plays  the  Girl  Philanthropist — 
[187] 


Hermione 


Each  pinchbeck,  toy  Millenium 

She  swings,  a  Bangle,  at  her  wrist — 
Blithe  Parrot  and  Pert  Egoist, 

You  threaten  her  with  Night  and  Sorrow? 
Hermiones  will  aye  persist! 

More  Little  Groups  will  rise  tomorrow! 

She,  whom  Prince  Platitude  has  kissed, 

You  threaten  her  with  Night  and  Sorrow? 

Slay  her  by  thousands,  friend — but  list : 
More  Little  Groups  will  rise  tomorrow ! 


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